“Heap Apache,” insisted Cayuse; “one white man.”
“Jumpin’ tarantelers!” breathed the trapper, “I was gittin’ warmer’n I thort. Ye’ve got Buffler’s hoss, an’ ther baron’s. Aire ye meanin’ ter tell me thet Buffler an’ ther baron hev been captered?”
“Wuh! Me see um take Pa-e-has-ka and Dutch brave and put um in old mine.”
“Ole mine? What ole mine?”
“Him little way from here; not far. We get out of gully, so Apaches no find us when they come looking for horses. Sabe? ”
“I’m savvyin’ like er house afire. But tell me fust off ef Buffler was hurt?”
“No can tell, Wolf-killer. Him carried to old mine; and Dutch brave, him carried to old mine, too.”
“Ain’t this er piece o’ thunderin’ mean luck for ye?” grumbled the old trapper. “Thar was me, knowin’ all erbout this hyar trap in ther hills, layin’ in ther closet o’ thet hotel like er trapped rat, an’ not able ter do er thing ter keep Buffler from runnin’ inter thet ambush. Things sartinly does turn out all-fired queer sometimes.”
While the old man was spluttering, he and Cayuse were climbing up the steep slope, each with one of the led horses.
They reached the top, went a little way down on the other side, and then dismounted to watch for some sign of the Apaches.