“Because he clubbed the Indian with his gun.”
“I’ll settle with yuh later,” Henderson scowled, making a sudden swipe at Dick with his open hand. “Get back to work. Get back to work all o’ yuh. Hereafter, I’m runnin’ this little show.”
It was several minutes before the Indian recovered consciousness and staggered to his feet, his three comrades gathered about him. The four of them glared at Baptiste, who stood cowering in front of Henderson.
“Baptiste,” roared the outlaw, “go and fetch Scar-Face. Tell him I want to see him. Tell him that I want to see him blamed quick. Either these Indians is gonna start to work or I’ll know the reason why. Yuh shore made a pretty mess o’ things, ain’t yuh?”
“Et ees impossible, monsieur. Scar-Face has gone to ze Indian village.”
“Find some other breed then what can talk to these Nitchies. Get!”
Baptiste had no sooner slunk out of sight, than the four Indians, favoring Henderson with a few chilling glances, started off across the rugged slope toward the footpath, supporting their injured companion. In vain did Henderson call out, entreating them to return. The four figures did not hesitate, did not once look back until they had gained the more even ground on the slope beyond. Then one of them turned, waving his arms defiantly in the air.
A flood of abusive oaths broke forth from the lips of the exasperated outlaw.
“Go on! Go on!” he screeched after them. “Yuh, ain’t no good anyway. Yuh ain’t no good fer nothin’, yuh yellow scum!”
With a final livid oath, he turned quickly and strode away in the direction of the cabin.