Crouching there, their hollow eyes eagerly seeking means of placing this slight barrier between them and their expected pursuers, they saw a lone Indian paddling his canoe up the creek.
They crouched among the willows and waited.
“Shall I knock him over?” asked one, fingering his rifle trigger suggestively.
“Not yet; let’s try to hire him to put us over, or, better still, take us far down the stream.”
“Good! and perhaps he can procure food for us.”
The Indian was hailed and came ashore for parley. He was a trapper, a probable outcast from some tribe, and was ready for barter. Yes, he would take them down the creek. “Food heap plenty—much fish and prairie dog.”
The Indian didn’t want money—he had been swindled—but he wanted rifle “heap bad.” So they struck a bargain. He was to paddle them down as far as the Big Horn and there deliver to them the canoe for one of their rifles.
The Indian had plenty of pemmican and was willing to trade for powder and ball. The trade was eagerly made, and the half-starved men fell to.
“Even biltong tastes good if a man is hungry enough,” said one, as they rode down the sluggish current.
“Yes, it does, Ike, but I’m tired of this dodging and starving existence. I think I’ll give in and take my medicine.”