“Wal, gentlemen!” said Cris, “yur about as silent a party as a man might wish to meet, darn me, if you aint. I’m comin’.”
“Much obleeged to you for your escort, which I ked a done without. Thanks to your red-skin perliteness for nothin’. Go ahead, I kin walk without your helpin’ me. Where are ye bound for?”
“To the chief,” answered one of the men.
“The chief! What chief?”
“Wacora.”
Cris uttered an emphatic oath.
“Wacora, eh? If that’s the case, I reckon the days o’ Cris Carrol air drawin’ to a close. The fiercest and most ’vengeful cuss of them all, I’ve heard say. Lead on, I’ll go along with ye willin, but not cheerful. If they kill me like a man I’ll not tremble in a jint; but if it’s the torture—there, go ahead. Don’t keep the party waitin’.”
Brave heart, as he was, he followed them with as bold and free a step to what he believed to be his death, as if alone, and at liberty on the Savanna.
The Indians without exchanging a word, either among themselves or with him, proceeded in the direction of Oluski’s town.