“We can fight them, capt’n, even-handed,” said the trapper Garey. “Thar ain’t over two hundred.”
“Jest a hundred and ninety-six,” interposed a hunter, “without the weemen. I’ve counted them; that’s thar number.”
“Wal,” continued Garey, “thar’s some difference atween us in point o’ pluck, I reckin; and what’s wantin’ in number we’ll make up wi’ our rifles. I never valleys two to one wi’ Injuns, an’ a trifle throw’d in, if ye like.”
“Look at the ground, Bill! It’s all plain. Whar would we be after a volley? They’d have the advantage wi’ their bows and lances. Wagh! they could spear us to pieces thar!”
“I didn’t say we could take them on the paraira. We kin foller them till they’re in the mountains, an’ git them among the rocks. That’s what I advise.”
“Ay. They can’t run away from us with that drove. That’s sartin.”
“They have no notion of running away. They will most likely attack us.”
“That’s jest what we want,” said Garey. “We kin go yonder, and fight them till they’ve had a bellyful.”
The trapper, as he spoke, pointed to the foot of the Mimbres, that lay about ten miles off to the eastward.
“Maybe they’ll wait till more comes up. There’s more of head chief’s party than these; there were nearly four hundred when they passed the Pinon.”