Full ten minutes passed, and still he spoke not; his “oracle” had not yet yielded its response.
I have said that at the first glance it was difficult to tell whether the old man was gazing into the barrel of his gun or beyond it. After watching him closely, I observed that he was doing both. Now his eyes were a little raised, as if he looked upon the plain—anon they were lowered, and apparently peering into the tube. He was drawing the data of his problem from facts—he was trusting to his divinity for the solution.
For a long time he kept up this singular process of conjuration—alternating his glances in equal distribution between the hollow cylinder and the circle of vision that comprehended within its circumference the Comanche encampment.
The others began to grow impatient; all were interested in the result, and not without reason. Standing upon the limits of a life-danger, it is not strange they should feel anxiety about the issue.
Thus far, however, none had offered to interrupt or question the queer old man. None dared. One or two of the party had already had a taste of his quality when fretted or interfered with, and no one desired to draw upon himself the sharp “talk” of the earless trapper.
Garey at length approached, but not until Rube, with a triumphant toss of his head and a scarcely audible “wheep” from his thin lips, showed signs that the consultation had ended, and that the “joss” who dwelt at the bottom of his rifle-barrel had vouchsafed an answer!
I had watched him with the rest. I liked that expressive hitch of the head; I liked the low, but momentous sibillation that terminated the séance between him and his familiar spirit. They were signs that the knot was unravelled—that the old trapper had devised some feasible plan by which the Indian camp might be entered.
Garey and I drew near, but not to question him; we understood him too well for that. We knew that he must be left free to develop his purpose in his own time; and we left him free—simply placing ourselves by his side.
“Wal, Billee!” he said, after drawing a long breath, “an yurself, young fellur! whet do ’ee both think o’ this hyur bizness: looks ugly, don’t it—eh, boyees?”
“Tarnal ugly,” was Garey’s laconic answer.