“What! you haven’t—?”
“But I hev, Cap’n. I had good, soun’ reason.”
“What reason?” I demanded.
“In the first place, the feller wur a gurillye; and in the next, he wur an outpost picket.”
“How know you this?”
“Wal, Cap’n, I struck his trail on the edge of the thicket. I knowed he hedn’t kum fur, as I looked out for sign whar we crossed the crik bottom, an’ seed none. I tuk the back track, an’ soon come up with him under a big button-wood. He had been thar some time, for the ground wur stamped like a bullock-pen.”
“Well?” said I, impatient to hear the result.
“I follered him up till I seed him leanin’ for’ard on his horse, clost to the track we oughter take. From this I suspicioned him; but, gettin’ a leetle closter, I seed his gun an’ fixin’s strapped to the saddle. So I tuk a sight, and whumelled him. The darned mustang got away with his traps. This hyur’s the only thing worth takin’ from his carcage: it wudn’t do much harm to a grizzly b’ar.”
“Good heaven!” I exclaimed, grasping the glittering object which the hunter held towards me; “what have you done?”
It was a silver-handled stiletto. I recognised the weapon. I had given it to the boy Narcisso.