Sure-shot! we were within speaking distance; but who could have identified the Yankee in such a guise? The tricoloured escutcheon I had myself so lately borne—the black face, shoulders, and arms—the white circle on the breast—the red spot—all just as they had painted me!
“Jehosophet an’ pigeon-pie!” cried he, as he saw us approach; “air it yeou, capting? an’ Wingrove, teoo!”
“Yes, brave comrade! Your shot has saved us all. Patience! we shall soon set you free!”
Leaping down from our horses, we hurried up the sloping path. I was still anxious about Sure-shot’s safety; but in another moment, my anxiety was at an end. He was yet unscathed. Like myself, he had received some scratches, but no wound of a dangerous character. Like myself, he had died a hundred deaths, and yet lived! His gleesome spirit had sustained him throughout the dread ordeal. He had even joked with his cruel tormentors! Now that the dark hour was past, his jeux d’esprit were poured forth with a continuous volubility. No; not continuous. At intervals, a shadow crossed his spirit, as it did that of all of us. We could not fail to lament the fate of the unfortunate Hibernian.
“Poor Petrick!” said Sure-shot, as we descended the slope, “he weer the joyfulest kimrade I ever hed, an’ we must gi’ him the berril o’ a Christyan. I wonder neow what on airth them verming lies done wi’ him? Wheer kin they have hid his body?”
“True—where is it? It was out yonder on the plain? I saw it there: they had scalped him.”
“Yees; they sculped him at the time we weer all captered. He weer lying jest out theer last night at sundown. He ain’t theer now; nor ain’t a been this mornin’, or I’d a seed him. What do ees think they’ve done wi’ him anyhow?”
The disappearance of the body was singular enough. It had undoubtedly been removed from the spot where it had lain; and was now nowhere to be seen! It was scarcely probable that the wolves had eaten it, for the Indians had been all night upon the ground; and their camp-fires were near. True, the coyotes would have cared little for that; but surely the brutes could not have carried the body clear away? The bones, at least, would have remained? There were none—not a trace either of body or bones! We passed around the butte, and made search on the other side. There was no dead body there—no remains of one. Ha—the river! It swept past within fifty yards of the mound. It would account for the disappearance of the corpse. Had the Indians thrown it into the water? We walked towards the stream, half mechanically. We had little expectation of finding the remains of the unfortunate man. The current rushed rapidly on: the body would have been taken along with it?
“Maybe it mout hev lodged somewheres?” suggested Sure-shot. “Ef we shed find it, capting, I’d like to put a sod over him, for old times’ sake. Shell we try down the stream?”
We followed the bank downward. A little below grew willows, forming a selvedge to the river’s edge. Their culms curved over, till the long quivering leaves dipped into the water. Here and there were thickets of them extending back into the plain. Only by passing through these could the bank of the river be reached. We entered among the willows, Wingrove going in the advance.