“What emigrants? Who attacked them?”
“Yur fust question, boys, I kin answer clar enuf. They were some planters from the State o’ Massissippi.”
“That’s my State,” interpolated one of the trappers, a young fellow, inclined to take part in the talking.
“Shet up yur head!” commanded Harris, turning upon the fellow one of his blackest frowns.
“Whether it air yur State or no,” continued the imperturbable ’Lije, “don’t make much diff’rence. What I’ve got to say, boys, air this: A karryvan o’ emigrant planters, boun’ for Californey, wi’ thar niggers along, camp’d last night on the bank o’ Bijou Crik. After sun-up this mornin’, they war set upon by Injuns, an’ I reck’n most, ef not all on ’em, hev been rubbed out. I chance to know who them emigrants war; but thet’s no bizness o’ yurn. I reck’n it’s enuf that they war whites, an’ thet Injuns hez dud the deed.”
“What Indians? Do you know what tribe?”
“That oughtn’t to make any diffrence eyther,” responded ’Lije. “Though I reck’n it will, when I’ve tolt ye who the attacktin party war, an’ who led ’em. I’ve alser got on the trail o’ that.”
“Who? ’Rapahoes?”
“No.”
“Tain’t the direction for Blackfeet.”