“There are women in trouble,” remarked one of my followers, in a suggestive tone.
The remark caused all of us simultaneously to ply the spur, and ride forward.
Before we had galloped a dozen lengths, a man appeared coming from the opposite direction, and advancing rapidly up the middle of the road. We saw it was the scout Garey; and, once more reining up, we awaited his approach.
I was at the head of the little troop, and as the trapper drew near, I could see his face full under the light of the moon. Its expression was ominous of evil tidings.
He spoke not until he had laid his hand upon the pommel of my saddle, and then only in a subdued and saddened tone. His words were:—
“Thar’s ugly news, capt’n.”
Oh, that terrible foreboding!
“News?—ill news?” I stammered out; “what, for Heaven’s sake?—speak, Garey!”
“They’ve been playin’ the devil at the rancherie. Them ruffins hez behaved wuss than Injuns would a done. But ride forrard, capt’n, an see for yurself. The weemen are clost by hyar at the shanty. Rube’s a tryin’ to pacify them, poor critters.”
Oh, that terrible foreboding!