Old Nomad was wasting his breath and strength, for in spite of the terrific fight he put up the two braves gradually overpowered him, and he was finally helpless, with hands and feet in the firmly knotted loops of a lariat.
“Ugh!” grunted one of them. “Heap hard nut to crack.”
“Yer hain’t got ’im cracked yit, nuther, yer red loafer. I’ll be fishin’ in ther Yallerstun when yore great gran’-childern be er chasin’ ghosts er foxes in ther happy huntin’ groun’s.”
“Big tongue; many wiggle!” said the other Indian solemnly.
Nomad strained savagely at his bonds in anger.
“I won’t stand any more o’ yer sass, ye b’iled apology fer a decent heathen. Take off this rawhide, an’ gi’ me a chance at both o’ ye, an’ I’ll knock ye inter sixteen kinds o’ cocked hats in jest erbout ’leven shakes ov er little lamb’s last piece o’ mutton.”
Other Indians came, and the trapper at least realized that he was a prisoner, and that in spite of his taunting he could not draw from them why he had been thus treated or who had ordered these indignities.
The trapper was placed under guard, and passed a weary day, while all the Indians but the one who sat smoking with a rifle across his knees departed.
“Don’t that beat ole split-huff hisself?” mourned Nomad, as he saw the redskins depart. “Only that pesky cigar sign stuck up thar on er rock ter ’muse myself with. Hey, Indian! Why don’t yer say suthin’ er do suthin’ ter keep comp’ny from gittin’ homesick? Say, yer red-skinned mummy, I’ll give yer the fust shot if you’ll come inter a game ov take turns as er target.”
No answer.