“Perhaps that’s it, Nomad,” answered the Laramie man wearily.
“I say, Hick; you’n Skibo ’r’ all right; I believe I’ll git Hide-rack an’ sashay over thet way, an’ see what I can diskiver.”
“Well, don’t get into trouble till Cody comes back.”
“No, no! I won’t. Hick,” promised Nomad, in childish glee at being able to get away so easily.
Nomad’s evident pleasure at the prospect of some sort of excitement was a relief to Hickok, who, as well as he liked the veteran trapper, tired of the latter’s fretting if in any way restrained.
Old Nomad put spurs to Hide-rack, and tore across the little plain as though his life depended upon overtaking the party of Indians, when, in fact, he did not intend to come in contact with them at all, or even to have them see him. In this he blundered.
Half an hour after leaving his companions among the hills, Nomad rounded a rift of rock and came into a little vale thickly grown with willows. He leaned over his horse’s neck to scrutinize the signs of the passing party of Indians as he entered the growth, and then felt himself suddenly jerked from the saddle to land sprawling on his back, and a couple of brawny Indians held him there and proceeded to bind him, as Nomad expressed it—“hoof an’ tail.”
“Howlin’ heifercats!” shouted Nomad, as he struggled with his captors. “What d’yu red mummies reckon you’d hitched onter, anyhow? Guess you don’t know ole Nomad, du ye?”
This was grunted out disjointedly as the trapper wrenched and fought with his captors.
“By ther great horn spoon an’ er dozen little ladles, I’ll wring ther dirty necks ov nine er ’leven o’ yer pesky heifercats!”