“They mout,” said Rube, in answer to my question, “an’ kin if they try. Thur ain’t a big show o’ vittlin’ hyur, ’ceptin’ we chaw donnicks. But thur’s another way, ef they only hev the gumshin to go about it, that’ll git us sooner than starvin’. Ha!” ejaculated the speaker, with emphasis. “I thort so. Thur a-gwine to smoke us. Look ’ee yander!”
I looked forth. At a distance I saw several Indians coming in the direction of the cave, carrying large bundles of brushwood. Their intention was evident.
“But can they do this?” I inquired, doubting the possibility of our enemies being able to effect their purpose in that way; “can we not bear the smoke?”
“Bar it! Yur green, young fellur. Do ’ee know what sort o’ brush thur a-toatin’ yander?”
“No,” said I; “what is it?”
“It ur the stink-plant, then; an’ the stinkinest plant ’ee ever smelt, I reckin. The smoke o’ it ud choke a skunk out o’ a persimmon log. I tell ’ee, young ’un, we’ll eyther be smoked out or smothered whur we are; an’ this child hain’t fit Injun for thirty yeern or better, to go under that a way. When it gets to its wurst I’m a-gwine to make a rush. That’s what I’m a-gwine ter do, young fellur.”
“But how?” I asked, hurriedly; “how shall we act then?”
“How? Yur game to the toes, ain’t ’ee?”
“I am willing to fight to the last.”
“Wal, than, hyur’s how, an’ the only how: when they’ve raised the smoke so that they can’t see us a-comin’, we’ll streak it out among ’em. You hev the pistol, an’ kin go fo’most. Shoot every niggur that clutches at ye, an’ run like blazes! I’ll foller clost on yur heels. If we kin oncest git through the thick o’ ’em, we mout make the brush, an’ creep under it to the big caves on t’other side. Them caves jines one another, an’ we mout dodge them thur. I seed the time this ’coon kud ’a run a bit, but these hyur jeints ain’t as soople as they wur oncest. We kin try neverthemless; an’ mind, young fellur, it’s our only chance: do ’ee hear?”