“It is strange;” he answered. “In any case, it’s no use our remaining longer here, if we’re going to do anything. What can you think of, ’Lije?”
The trapper, with his right palm resting upon the stopper of his gun, stood for a while, reflecting.
“Thar’s one thing,” he said at length; “eft air this Cheyenne skunk, an’ he ha’nt kilt the hull lot o’ them outright, thar’s jest a chance o’ our savin’ some o’ ’em.”
“Thank God!” exclaimed O’Neil, in a tone of relieved anxiety. “You think there’s a chance, ’Lije?”
“I duz.”
“In what way?”
“Wal; still concedin’ the point o’ its bein’ Yellur Chief, I kin guess putty near what it means. He’s out wi’ a band o’ the young braves, that ain’t likely to track strait back to the town o’ thar tribe; so long’s they’ve got captive weemen among ’em.”
The young Irishman started at the words. They conveyed a thought that gave pain to him; but, anxious to hear his comrade’s scheme for their rescue, he did not interrupt him.
“An’ ef’t be them, I kin guess whar they’ll go—most sartin o’t. This chile chances to know one o’ Yellur Chief’s private campin’ grouns’. I larnt thet when I war trappin’ in this quarter too yeern ago—time’s you war down stayin’ at Bent’s. They’re over yonner now, a plunderin’ the poor emigrants an’ thar wagins, an’ we mout go strait to ’em ef we wanted to git shet o’ our scalps. But as we don’t want thet, the question is, whar they’ll be when we kum back in search o’ ’em.”
“Come back! You purpose going somewhere? Where to?”