“This is no time for fooling, Tom. Our situation is far too serious to admit of that. Such a move would be even worse than the other.”
“Not much. Anyhow, I’m goin’ to try it. They cain’t do much more’n kill a feller, anyhow, an’ ef we stay here they’re bound to do it, shore. So what matter? I’m goin’ out thar, an’ they hain’t a-goin to hurt me, nuther,” confidently added the scout.
“But how—what do you mean?” asked Calhoun, seeing that his companion was undoubtedly in earnest in what he said.
“I’m goin’ to turn Injun fer a bit, jest to see how that pesky Dusky Dick must feel. But don’t talk. Watch the perayrie cluss—watch fer both on us, fer I cain’t do my shar’ now.”
The old scout left the side of the puzzled soldier, and glided toward a pile of dead savages, who had been carelessly heaped together, after the second assault, so as to clear the way. These comprised all those who had fallen inside the corral.
As he rudely turned these over with his foot, Tom uttered a grunt of approval, and then catching one of the dead braves by the arm, he dragged it to the spot where crouched Calhoun.
“What are you going to do with that, Tom?”
“Goin’ to skin it, fust. Then putt on the hide an’ walk out yender an’ tell those imps as how I was dead, but hev come to life ag’in,” chuckled the old guide.
Calhoun uttered an exclamation of disgust.
“Don’t git huffy, now, boss, ’cause I speak sorter mixed-up like. You know my way, or had orter by this time. But lis’en an’ you’ll see what I mean. You see this ’ere carr’on is—or was, I’d orter say, mebbe, seein’ as he’s dead—a Delaware Injun. That proves what I said ’bout Dusky Dick’s hevin’ picked up a band of runnygades to do his dirty work, fer thar is ’Rapahoe, Cheyenne, Pawnee, an’ Delaware ’mongst them dead critters over yon.