“Waal, I’ll be gumdastercated!”
This exclamation caused the others to look at Nomad, who was staring, half wildly and half happily, out across the plain. They followed his gaze and saw three Indians on ponies just emerging from the thick growth beyond the lift of a terrace, half a mile to the west.
Another and another followed, until fifteen were in view, riding eastward in a leisurely manner.
“Why’n ther blue kinks o’ my curly hair, couldn’t them thar pesky reds ha’ come this way an’ started sumthin’? Sufferin’ wild cats! How my muscles ache, an’ how my brain itches! Say, Hick, whar d’yu s’pose them pesky redskins air goin’?”
“I could tell better, Nomad, if I knew what brand of reds they are.”
“Waal, s’posin’ they’re Crows, whar they goin’?”
“Home.”
“S’posin’ they’re Sioux?”
“Then they have probably been into mischief or are looking for it.”
“Thet’s jest what I nachally concluded—them thar red hoss thiefs ain’t round hyar jest ’cause they’re prowlin’, but ’cause sumbuddy wants um hyar. Now, I figgers thet they’ve been sent for by some o’ them Bozeman scoundrels an’ thet they’re goin’ up ’mong them buttes jest below ther town ter wait fer dark.”