“Indians! What Indians?”
“Arapahoes.”
“Arapahoes! Where did you encounter them?”
The question was put in a hurried manner, and in a tone that betrayed excitement.
“On the Huerfano,” I replied—“by the Orphan butte. It was the band of a chief known as the Red-Hand.”
“Ha! The Red-Hand on the Huerfano! Stranger! are you sure of this?”
The earnest voice in which the interrogatory was again put somewhat surprised me. I answered by giving a brief and rapid detail of our capture, and subsequent treatment—without mentioning the names of my travelling companions, or stating the object of our expedition. Indeed, I was not allowed to enter into particulars. I was hurried on by interpellations from my listener—who, before I could finish the narrative of my escape, again interrupted me, exclaiming in an excited manner:
“Red-Hand in the valley of the Huerfano! news for Wa-ka-ra!” After a pause she hastily inquired: “How many warriors has the Red-Hand with him?”
“Nearly two hundred.”
“Not more than two hundred?”