“Do you think they might be still around the wagons?” asked one, addressing himself to Orton.
“Not likely,” answered ’Lije; “an’ for reezuns. Fust an’ foremost, thar war some o’ you fellers, as passed the karryvan yesterday, ’bout the hour o’ noon. Ain’t that so?”
“Yes; we did,” responded one of the three trappers, who, standing silently in the circle, had not yet taken part in the hurried conversation. “We travelled along with them for some distance,” continued the man, “and stayed a bit at their noon halting-place. We didn’t know any of the party, except their guide, who was that Choctaw that used to hang about Bent’s Fort. Waboga, the Indjens call him. Well; we warned them against the fellur, knowing him to be a queer ’un. Like enough it’s him that has betrayed them.”
“Thet’s been the treetor,” said ’Lije. “Him an’ no other; tho’ it moutn’t ’a made much difference. They war boun’ to go under anyhow, wi’ Yellur Chief lookin’ arter ’em. An’ now, as to the lookin’ arter him, we won’t find him at the wagons. Knowin’ you’ve kim on hyar, an’ knowin’, as he’s sartint ter do, thet thar’s a good grist o’ trappers at the Fort, he’ll stay ’bout the plundered camp no longer than’ll take him an’ his party to settle up spoilin’ the plunder. Then they’ll streak it. They’ve goed away from thar long afore this.”
“We can track them.”
“No, ye can’t. Leastwise, ef ye did, it woudn’t be a bit o’ use. This chile hev thort o’ a shorter an’ better way o’ findin’ out thar warabouts.”
“You know where they are gone, ’Lije?” interrogated Black Harris.
“Putty nigh the spot, Harry. I reck’n I kin find it out, ’ithout much gropin’.”
“Good for you, ole hoss! You guide us to thar swarmin’-place; an’ ef we don’t break up thar wasps’ nest and strangle thar yellar hornet o’ a chief, then call Black Harris o’ the mountains a dod-rotted greenhorn!”
“Ef I don’t guide ye strait custrut into thar campin’-place ye may call ole ’Lije Orton blinder than the owls o’ a purairia-dog town. So git your things ready, boys; an’ kum right arter me!”