“Right, comrade! right, I say.”
“Wal. First spoke first pick, I reckin. That’s mountain law; so, old gal, I cottons to you. Come along, will yer?”
Saying this, he seized one of the Indians, a large, fine-looking woman, roughly by the wrist, and commenced dragging her towards the atajo.
The woman screamed and resisted, frightened, not at what had been said, for she did not understand it, but terrified by the ruffian expression that was plainly legible in the countenance of the man.
“Shut up yer meat-trap, will ye?” cried he, still pulling her towards the mules; “I’m not goin’ to eat ye. Wagh! Don’t be so skeert. Come! mount hyar. Gee yup!”
And with this exclamation he lifted the woman upon one of the mules.
“If ye don’t sit still, I’ll tie ye; mind that!” and he held up the lasso, making signs of his determination.
A horrid scene now ensued.
A number of the scalp-hunters followed the example of their ruffian comrade. Each one chose the girl or woman he had fancied, and commenced hurrying her off to the atajo. The women shrieked. The men shouted and swore. Several scrambled for the same prize—a girl more beautiful than her companions. A quarrel was the consequence. Oaths and ejaculations rang out; knives were drawn and pistols cocked.
“Toss up for her!” cried one.