“Shoot um!” was the prompt reply of the Indian.
“Pussy, you are a man of rare judgment,” complimented Stacy, grinning at the Indian.
“It is what one would expect from one savage to another,” murmured Emma.
“What did the Chief say about it?” demanded Tom. “I mean Mr. White.”
“Chief say me stay. Men come git Two-gun.”
“Why do you call Hamilton the Chief?” wondered Emma.
“How many of the bandits did they get?” questioned Tom, ignoring Emma’s inquiry.
“Not know.”
“Very well, I will turn Two-gun over to you, but, Cat-foot, if you do one little thing to disturb that man you will have to answer to me. When he asks for a drink, give it to him and say nothing—say nothing at all to him at any time unless he wants something. You also will be held responsible for his not getting away, and after the men take him, unless you get different orders from the Chief, you will come to us at Three-Mile Pass. That’s all, except that we will leave food for you and Two-gun.”
At Tom’s direction all hands began packing, making ready for another night journey. Stacy complained bitterly, saying he hadn’t had a night’s sleep in so long that his eyelids hung down over his cheeks.