“I am a-thinkin’, an’ hev been, ever since I kim up hyur. But ’tain’t no use. We mout think our heads off, ’ithout devisin’ any way to be o’ use to them. We’d only git ourselves into the same trap as they’re in—an’ maybe wuss; for them Cheyennes—’specially Yellow Chief’s gang—he’s late tuk a desperate anger agin’ us trappers, because, as they say, some o’ our fellurs carried off one o’ thar squaws from the place whar they war campin’ last spring in the middle Park. If it’s the Cheyenne tribe, as is squeelin’ out thar, the furrer we keep away from ’em, the longer we’ll hev har on our heads. Hilloa! what’s thet thing comin’ on yonder?”
The exclamation, as the query that followed, was called forth at sight of a dark object, that seemed to be moving over the prairie, and in the direction of the cliff—from the top of which the two trappers, themselves concealed behind a cedar-tree, were scanning the outward plain. It had the appearance of a human being; but one so diminutive in size and of such dusky hue, that it might have passed for a fresh dropped buffalo calf, or one of the dark-brown wolves sometimes seen among the mountains. And it seemed to go with a crouching gait, unlike the upright attitude of man!
“It’s a nigger!” cried the old trapper, as the moving object began to get near. “A nigger, an’ a boy at thet! Durn me ef ’taint! What a cunnin’ young darkey he be. Look how he winds about through the bushes, crawlin’ from scrub to scrub! Durn me ef thet boy ain’t wuth his weight in best beaver skins! Now, I kin see how it air. He’s been one o’ the karryvan, which by thet, I reck’n, must be from the South; one o’ thar slaves sartin; an’ seeing his master rubbed out, he’s tuk leg bail on his own account. Wagh! he’s comin’ right this way! Ned, yu’re soopler than I’m; skoot out, an’ try ef ye kin catch him, while I stay hyur, an’ look out for what’s a doin’ yonder. Grit your claws on the darkey, ef ye ken, an’ we may larn all about it.”
O’Neil sprang down the cliff; and wading through the cañon, was soon alongside the black-skinned fugitive—a negro boy, as anticipated.
There was no chase required for the catching him: the darkey was already breathless and broken down, after his long run; and submitted to being taken prisoner without any attempt at running away—the more readily no doubt on seeing that his captor was white.
The young Irishman did not question him on the spot: but at once conducting him into the cove, called to his comrade to come down.
“Wall, ye young imp o’ darkness!” began the trapper, as soon as he had descended, “whar hev you come from, so skeeart-like?”
“From de wagins, massa—de wagins, whar da wa camp—”
“What wagons?”
“De wagins dat we’re all a trabellin’ wif, cross de big praira. Dar war de white folk and de collr’d people, all ob de plantash’n; an’ I ’speck dey all kill’d ceptin’ maseff.”