Conspicuous in the front were two who appeared to act in the double capacity of leaders and guides. One of them seemed exceedingly anxious to press forward—more than any of the party. He was acting as if some strong urgency was upon him. It was the young Irishman, O’Neil. The man riding by his side, also seemingly troubled about time, was his old comrade, ’Lije Orton, the trapper.
The two kept habitually ahead, now in muttered converse with one another, and now shouting back to their companions, to urge them onward. Some of these came close up, while some, at times, showed a disposition to straggle.
The truth is, the “mountain men” had brought their whisky-flasks along with them, and, at every stream crossed, they insisted on stopping to “take a horn.”
O’Neil was the one who chafed loudest at the delay. To him it was excruciating torture.
“Arter all,” said Orton, with the intention less to restrain than comfort him, “it won’t make so much diffrence, Ned. A wheen o’ minutes ant neyther hyur nor thur, in a matter o’ the kind. In course, I know well o’ what ye’re thinkin’ about.”
He paused, as if expecting a rejoinder.
O’Neil only answered with a deep, long-drawn sigh.
“Ef anything air to happen to the gurl,” continued ’Lije, rather in the strain of a Job’s comforter, “it will hev happened long ’fore this.”
The young Irishman interrupted him with a groan.
“Maybe, howsomdever,” continued ’Lije, “she air all right yet. It air possible enuf the Injuns’ll all get drunk, as soon as they lay ther claws on the licker that must ’a been in the waggins; an’ ef that be the case, they won’t think o’ troublin’ any o’ thar keptives till thar carousin’ kums to a eend. This chile’s opeenyun is, ef they intend any torturin’, they’ll keep that sport over till the morrow: an’, shud they do so, darn me, ef we don’t dissapeint ’em. Oncst we git upon the spot, we’ll gi’e ’em sport very diff’runt from that they’ll be expectin’.”