“To be sure we have,” said Joe; “now tell me what’s in the wind.”
“If I was to tell you, I bet you’d be frightened half to death,” remarked Sneak, driving down a headstone, having filled up the grave.
“No! no—I—indeed but I wouldn’t, though!” said Joe, trembling at every joint, the true cause, for the first time, occurring to him. “Ain’t it Indians, Mr. Sneak?”
“Don’t call me Mister agin, if you please. There are more moccasins than the one you found in these parts, that’s all.”
“I’ll go home and tell Mr. Glenn!” said Joe, whirling round quickly.
“Dod rot your cowardly hide of you!” said Sneak, staring at him contemptuously; “now don’t you know he knowed it before you did?”
“Yes—but I was going home to tell him that some bullets must be run—that’s what I meant.”
“Don’t you think he knows that as well as you do?” continued Sneak.
“But I—I must go!” exclaimed Joe, starting in a half run, with the hounds (which had been forgotten by their master) following at his heels.
“Let me have the hounds, to go after my gun—the red skins might waylay me, if I go alone, in spite of all my cunning woodcraft,” said Sneak.