“Crookleg! Is that all-fired nigger varmint mixed up with him? That makes a brace of the durndest hounds that ever run together. Who told you that Crookleg helped young Rody?”
“The chief thinks so.”
“Wal, then, I’ll bet a ’possum skin agin a musk rat’s that he’s right. Your chief, Wacora, is as likely an Injun at reck’nin up the merits o’ a case as this coon knows on. Now you’ve missed liftin’ my scalp, what do you intend doin’?”
“Go on looking for the chief who stole Oluski’s heart, find him, and kill him.”
The glance that accompanied these words was full of deadly determination.
“Wal, go, and good luck attend you. Don’t ask me to jine you, I tell you I ain’t no man-hunter nor never will be; only, if either of them thar scamps should be out walkin’ whar I chance to be, they had better have met with a mad bar than this Cris Carrol. Never mind sayin’ a word about that bad shot o’ yourn. The moment I seed you I knowed you didn’t mean it for me, only next time be more partiklar, that’s all.”
Without making reply, Maracota turned away, and was soon lost under the shadows of the forest.
As soon as he was out of sight, the old hunter renewed his preparations for a smoke.
Drawing from his pouch (which seemed to contain everything that the heart of a hunter could desire) another pipe, he was soon once more sending clouds of blue smoke up into the air.
“If that Maracota meets Warren Rody or Crookleg he’ll be an awkward customer to either or both on ’em; and that he may meet ’em he has Cris Carrol’s best prayers and wishes.”