The cavalrymen, as they rode away, turned in their saddles and watched the progress of the strange procession as long as they could see them, and then hastened on to the fort to report.
“Looky hyar, Buffler; et strikes me we’re gittin’ inter fermiliar territory—don’t et yeou?” asked Nomad.
“Yes; there is the rock where the yellow-haired girl hailed us,” answered the scout.
“An’ Cayuse is goin’ plumb centre at et,” continued the trapper.
“Well, we intended to come this way sometime, and we got around sooner than we expected,” said the scout.
“Mars’ Billyum,” broke in Skibo, “Ah reckon yo’ eyes am better dan dis yeah niggah’s—don’ yo’ see sumpin’ atop o’ dat mounting?”
The scout looked, and then pulled his field glass.
“There certainly is quite an important something there, Skibo. It is no less than our yellow-haired girl of beauty and mystery. Perhaps she’ll invite us to lunch, Skibo.”
“Yah, yah! Mebbe she do, Mars’ Billyum; but Ah specs it’ll take a pow’ful lot o’ floppin’ for dat dar Nomad to fly up to dat high roost ob hern.”
“Yer jes’ look out fer yer own floppin’, Mr. Skibo—who ever hearn tell o’ a nigger with wings, anyhow?”