“It never’ll dew tew stan’ here an’ think about it,” were his first words. “While we’re thinkin’, the reds are actin’, an’ ef we stan’ here idle long, we’ll run a good chance to be in the gal’s place.”
“Fact,” said Vic Potter; “tharfore, fix yerselves tew welcome the painted devils.”
For a while the emigrants worked with a will, and half an hour later every thing was in the best possible shape for defense.
Guards were stationed every few rods, on every side, and Wild Nat took his stand on the side from which the most danger was apprehended.
Vic occupied his time in standing sentinel, and occasionally taking the rounds of the camp, to see that every man was in his place, and every thing as it should be. But the long night wore wearily away, and the morning dawn came, showing the wide prairie and woodland, from which the light was fast dispelling the shadows, but no signs of the dreaded enemy.
“It’s about as well for them thet they didn’t tackle us,” said Wild Nat.
“It’s about as well for us, I guess,” said one of the men. “We are only sixty, all told, and there is no doubt hundreds of the Indians.”
“Wal,” said Nat, shutting one eye and aiming a tobacco-spit directly at the tip of a small dog’s tail, “it’s jist as well for them, anyhow, for thar’d be ’bout two dozen less ‘live an’ kickin’, at this present speakin’, on my account merely.”
“Do you think you could dispatch that number in one fight?” asked Kent, smiling at the trapper’s remark.
“I’m equal to an indefinite an’ unkalkulated number of ’em,” responded the trapper, “an’ answer in the place of meat-vittals an’ drink to ’em. I kalkerlate,” he added, squinting along his rifle-barrel, and waiting to draw a fine sight on a large eagle overhead—“I kalkerlate thet I save about five hundred bufflers every year by removin’ thar nateral enemies, which ain’t qualified, so to say, to live on any thing but buffler, an’ what they git for the hides. Thet eagle’s tew fur off tew shoot, ain’t he?”