“He’s dead,” said Boone, “and he is the only one that we are sure of having killed to-night. But many are wounded.”
“And smash me if Joe didn’t kill that one when his musket went off before he was ready,” said Sneak.
“Yes, I saw him fall when Joe fired; and that accident was, after all, a fortunate thing for us,” continued Boone.
“But I’m sorry for poor Joe,” said Sneak.
“Pshaw!” said Boone; “he’ll be well again, in an hour.”
“No, he’s a gone chicken.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Didn’t he say so himself? and didn’t he gabble out a whole parcel of purgatory talk? He’s as sure gone as a stuck pig, I tell you,” continued Sneak.
“He will eat as hearty a breakfast to-morrow morning as ever he did in his life,” said Boone. “But let us attend to the business in hand. I hardly think we will be annoyed any more from this quarter, unless yonder dead Indian was a chief, and then it is more than probable they will try to steal him away. However, you may remain here. I, alone, can manage the others.”
“Which others?” inquired Sneak.