Cayuse had noted in the dim light that several rifles and belts were hanging on the wall, but he had not been able to distinguish his own. Now, climbing over the unconscious forms of the outlaws and expecting every moment to see the glare of a match that would reveal him to the enemy, he felt deftly and rapidly along the wall.
“I have ’m now,” chortled one, as he banged against the stove.
“Mashes al’sh over here by shtove.”
“Lookoush not drop ’m in wood box, shet housh ’fire,” cautioned the other, blundering along until he, too, collided with the stove.
“Heresh be!”
The exultant exclamation was immediately followed by a crash, bumpety-bump-bump, then groans and swearing from the lower regions.
One of the men had fallen down into the cellar.
If Cayuse had been of any other race he would most probably have laughed at the comical side of the situation. But Cayuse was busy carrying out rifles, belts, revolvers, knives, and ammunition.
He had found his own outfit, and now he proposed to disarm those who would be most likely to follow him. He carried the arms into a thicket near by, and buried them in brush and leaves, keeping out several of the best revolvers. He thought these might be needed by Buffalo Bill and his pards. Cayuse also carried away all the cartridges.
“Ugh! Heap fool palefaces; drink rum and steal!” The Piute thus summed up his opinion of the gang that had accidentally captured him.