“Lige!—he!—Dutchy!” cried Garey, approaching the sleeper, and shaking him by the shoulder; “I want your sombrera.”
“Ho! wo! stand still! Jingo! he’ll throw me. I can’t get off; the spurs are locked. He! wo! wo!”
Rube and Garey broke into a loud cachinnation that awakened the rest of the slumberers. Quackenboss alone remained asleep, fighting in his dreams with the wild Indian horse.
“Durned mulehead!” cried Rube after a pause; “let ’im go on at thet long’s he likes it. Chuck the hat off o’ his head, Bill! we don’t want him—thet we don’t.”
There was a little pique in the trapper’s tone. The breach that the ranger had made, while acting as a faithful sentinel, was not yet healed.
Garey made no further attempts to arouse the sleeper, but in obedience to the order of his comrade, lifted off the hat; and, having procured one of the great candles, he and Rube started off without saying another word, of giving any clue to their design.
Though joyed at what I had heard, I refrained from interrogating them. Some of my followers who put questions received only ambiguous answers. From the manner of the trappers, I saw that they wished to be left to themselves; and I could well trust them to the development of whatever design they had conceived.
On leaving us, they walked straight out from the cliff; but how far they continued in this direction it was impossible to tell. They had not lighted the candle; and after going half-a-dozen steps, their forms disappeared from our view amidst the darkness and thickly-falling rain.