“What is it?” inquired several in the same breath.
“Injun on the back-track,” replied the panting trappers.
“Indians!—how many of them?” naturally asked one of the rangers.
“Who slayed Injuns? We saved a Injun,” sharply retorted Rube. “Damn yur palaver! thur’s no time for jaw-waggin’. Git yur rope ready, Bill. ’Ee durned greenhorns! keep down yur guns—shootin’ won’t do hyur—yu’d hev the hul gang back in the flappin’ o’ a beaver’s tail. You, Bill, rope the redskin, an let the young fellur help—he knows how; an ef both shed miss ’im, I ain’t agwine. ’Ee hear me, fellurs? Don’t ne’er a one o’ ye fire: ef a gun ur wanted, Targuts ’ll be surfficient, I guess. For yur lives don’t a fire them ur blunderboxes o’ yourn till ees see me miss—they’d be heerd ten mile off. Ready wi’ yur rope, Billee? You, young fellur? All right; mind yur eyes both an snare the durned niggur like a swamp-rabbit. Yanner he comes, right inter the trap, by the jumpin Geehosophat!”
The pithy chapter of instructions above detailed was delivered in far less time than it takes to read it. The speaker never paused till he had uttered the final emphatic expression, which was one of his favourite phrases of embellishment.
At the same instant I saw, just appearing above the crest of the ridge, the head and shoulders of a savage. In a few seconds more, the body rose in sight; and then the thighs and legs, with a large piebald mustang between them. I need scarcely add that the horse was going at a gallop; it is a rare sight when a horse-Indian rides any other gait.
There was only one. The scouts were sure of this. Beyond the swell stretched an open prairie, and if the Indian had had companions or followers, they would have been seen. He was alone.
What had brought him back on the trail? Was he upon the scout?
No; he was riding without thought, and without precaution. A scout would have acted otherwise.
He might have been a messenger; but whither bound? Surely the Indians had left no party in our rear?