“Yeh—dat’s it.”
“Then shoot one—”
“You shoot ’noder—den dey run ’way off.”
“I believe they would,” thoughtfully said Travers. “But it will be dangerous for you. Can you get down without their seeing you? If they do, you’re a dead man sure!”
“No—dey shoot, but can’t hit Delaware. Can’t hit—don’t know how shoot, dem Arapahoe. Hit hill, mebbe, not’ing else,” laughed Tom, a low, gleesome laugh, full of joy at the prospect of outwitting his hereditary foes.
“I know you think an Arapahoe is fit for nothing but crow-bait, Tom, but you may get fooled. Some of them are brave and cunning warriors—”
“No—no, Arapahoe squaw—all squaw!” angrily hissed the Delaware.
“Well, have it your own way. But be careful. Don’t be foolhardy, man, and throw away your life uselessly. Better go now; it’s growing late and there’s no time to lose.”
The Delaware turned away without a word, and passing his companion, he disappeared among the bushes beyond. Though he affected to laugh at the danger of his venture, nevertheless it was a perilous one, and one, too, that would require not a little caution and skill to carry out successfully.
As stated, the line of bushes fringed the base of the cliff, and then ran out, leaving the hillside bare and devoid of cover, except a few small bowlders and patches of stunted grass. For nearly fifty yards this stretch lay beneath the full vision of the warriors hidden below.