“Ugh!” grunted Little Cayuse.
“Waugh, ye pizen varmint!” growled a voice. “Whar ye goin’ with them cabyos?”
“Wolf-killer!” muttered Little Cayuse.
“Snarlin’ hyeners ef et ain’t Cayuse? Waal, blazes ter blazes an’ all hands round! Say, I thort ye was told ter foller Bernritter?”
“All same,” answered Cayuse. “You no follow Jacobs, huh?”
“I’m follerin’ him now. But look hyar, son, what ye doin’ with them two hosses? One of ’em looks like Buffler’s, blamed ef et don’t.”
“Wuh! All same Pa-e-has-ka. We no stay here. Heap Apache right ahead. Cayuse steal um cayuses from Apaches.”
“What’s thet ye’re tellin’? Apaches loose in this part o’ ther range? I reckons, Cayuse, ye must be shy a few, ain’t ye?”
Nomad was himself keeping a sharp lookout for redskins. In fact, when he saw Little Cayuse coming over the eastern wall of the gully with the two led horses, he had felt sure that he was one of Bascomb’s Apaches, and had screened himself behind the rock-pile.
The question he had put to the boy was for the purpose of making certain the Piute had made no mistake.