“Maybe he catch E-egante, maybe put him in skookum-house (prison)?” suggested Sarah.
“Oh no! Lor’! E-egante good Injun. White Father he feed him. Give him heap clothes,” said Mr. Long.
“A—h!” drawled Sarah, dubiously, and rode by herself.
“You’ll need watchin’,” muttered Jack Long.
The trumpet sounded, the troopers swung into their saddles, and the line of march was taken up as before, Crook at the head of the column, his ragged fur collar turned up, his corduroys stuffed inside a wrinkled pair of boots, the shot-gun balanced across his saddle, and nothing to reveal that he was any one in particular, unless you saw his face. As the morning grew bright, and empty, silent Idaho glistened under the clear blue, the General talked a little to Captain Glynn.
“E-egante will have crossed Snake River, I think,” said he. “I shall try to do that to-day; but we must be easy on those horses of yours. We ought to be able to find these Indians in three days.”
“If I were a lusty young chief,” said Glynn, “I should think it pretty tough to be put on a reservation for dipping a couple of kittens in the molasses.”
“So should I, captain. But next time he might dip Mrs. Dailey. And I’m not sure he didn’t have a hand in more serious work. Didn’t you run across his tracks anywhere this summer?”
“No, sir. He was over on the Des Chutes.”