With these ideas, then, it required deliberation on their part, as well as with us; and we knew that it would be some time before they would act. They, too, were in a dilemma.
The hunters obeyed the injunctions of Seguin, and remained silent, waiting upon Rube to deliver his advice.
The old trapper stood apart, half-resting upon his rifle, which he clutched with both hands near the muzzle. He had taken out the “stopper,” and was looking into the barrel, as if he were consulting some oracular spirit that he kept bottled up within it. It was one of Rube’s peculiar “ways,” and those who knew this were seen to smile as they watched him.
After a few minutes spent in this silent entreaty, the oracle seemed to have sent forth its response; and Rube, returning the stopper to its place, came walking forward to the chief.
“Billee’s right, cap. If them Injuns must be fit, it’s got to be did whur thur’s rocks or timmer. They’d whip us to shucks on the paraira. That’s settled. Wal, thur’s two things: they’ll eyther come at us; if so be, yander’s our ground,” (here the speaker pointed to a spur of the Mimbres); “or we’ll be obleeged to foller them. If so be, we can do it as easy as fallin’ off a log. They ain’t over leg-free.”
“But how should we do for provisions, in that case? We could never cross the desert without them.”
“Why, cap, thur’s no diffeeculty ’bout that. Wi’ the parairas as dry as they are, I kud stampede that hul cavayard as easy as a gang o’ bufflers; and we’d come in for a share o’ them, I reckin. Thur’s a wus thing than that, this child smells.”
“What?”
“I’m afeerd we mout fall in wi’ Dacoma’s niggurs on the back track; that’s what I’m afeerd on.”
“True; it is most probable.”