“The jig’s up with us, Joe. If I was only loose seven seconds, you wouldn’t ketch me dying like a coon here agin a tree.” Joe made no other response than a blubbering sound, while the tears ran down and dropped briskly from his chin.
Joe and Sneak in difficulty.
The savages gave vent to a burst of laughter when they beheld the agony of fear that possessed their captive. The three that were in favour of the slow torture now turned a deaf ear to the old warrior, and advanced to Joe. They held the palms of their hands under his chin, and caught the tears as they fell. They then stroked his head gently, and appeared to sympathize with the sufferer.
“Mr. Indian, if you’ll let me go, I’ll give you my gun and twenty dollars,” said Joe, appealing most piteously to the one that placed his hand on his head. The Indian seemed to understand him, and held his hand out for the money, while a demoniac smile played on his dark lips.
“Just untie my hands,” said Joe, endeavouring to look behind, “and I’ll go right straight home and get them.”
“You rascal—you want to run away,” replied the old Indian, who not only understood Joe’s language, but could himself speak English imperfectly.
“Upon my sacred word and honour, I won’t!” replied Joe.
“You lie!” said the savage, bestowing a severe smack on Joe’s face.
“Oh, Lord! Come now, Mr. Indian, that hurts!”