“That’s jess the questyin; though thar ain’t no questyin about it. Boys, do any o’ ye recognise this hyar shootin’ iron?”
One after another the Rangers step up, and look at the rifle.
“I do,” says one.
“And I,” adds another.
And a third, and fourth, make the same affirmation, all speaking in tones of surprise.
“Walt Wilder’s gun,” continues Cully, “sure an’ sartin. I know it, an oughter know it. See them two letters in the stock thar—‘WW.’ Old Nat Cully hez good reezun to recconise them, since ’twas hisself that cut ’em. I did it for Walt two yeern ago, when we war scoutin’ on the Collyrado. It’s his weepun, an’ no mistake.”
“Where did you find it?” inquires the captain.
“I’ve jess tuk it out o’ the claws o’ the ugliest Injun as ever made trail on a puraira—that beauty thar, whose karkidge the buzzards won’t be likely to tech.”
While speaking Cully points to a corpse. It is that of the Tenawa chief, already identified among the slain.
“He must a’ hed it in his clutch when suddenly shot down,” pursues the guide. “An’ whar did he git it? Boys, our ole kummerade’s wiped out for sartin. I know how Walt loved that thar piece. He w’udn’t a parted wi’ it unless along wi’ his life.”