“Let go—me kill Arapahoe debble!” snarled the Delaware, struggling fiercely in the powerful grasp of the captain.
“No, they’re gone. Don’t be a fool, man. There’s four scalps, if you want them. That’s enough for once. Do you hear?”
The savage suddenly ceased his struggles, though with a ill-grace. But then his face brightened as he glanced back upon the ghastly forms of the fallen red-skins.
“Come, help me catch their horses, first, Tom,” said Travers. “If we don’t mind they’ll give us the slip altogether.”
Without a word the Delaware followed his companion up the valley, where they could hear the frightened horses, still snorting wildly. The soldier began to fear they would experience not a little trouble in effecting their capture.
But both he and the Delaware were old hands among the horses, and Tom set out to gain the further side of the animals, in order to prevent their flight. This was quickly accomplished, and then, while Travers stood still, the Delaware slowly advanced toward the trembling group.
They permitted his approach without a motion, save to huddle closer together, until nearly within arm’s length, but then they dashed off toward the soldier. Travers stood still with outstretched hand, and, after a few minutes’ delay, one of them came close enough for him to secure the halter.
Then it was an easy task to collect the others, which once accomplished, the two men returned down the valley where had taken place the deadly surprise. The four dead forms presented a ghastly sight, and even Travers could not repress a shudder, as he recalled the frightful scene.
“Take their scalps, if you will, Tom,” he said, as the Delaware drew his knife. “But be quick about it. And then tumble their bodies into the creek, before we call the lady. The sight would be horrible enough to kill her.”
“Squaw no so soft like dat,” laughed the Delaware, as he shook the first trophy to free it from the gouts of blood, before securing it to his girdle. “Stan’ big heap, dey kin. No kill ’um so easy, like dat.”