The scout was listening for a repetition of the shots.
“I hope a painter will come ’long to his ’sistance, as it did to ours.”
The shots did not sound again.
“They’ve killed him, er he’s druv ’em away, er mebbe the painter skeered ’em. I’m swearin’ by painters, frum this time on!”
Pizen Jane’s tongue would wag, no matter what happened.
“If I thought we could aid him, and he needed aid now, I’d try to go to his help,” said the generous scout.
“But we don’t know where he is!”
“He’s out in that direction, somewhere.”
“And he may be a road agent, or even an Injun. More likely to be, than an honest man.”
“Very true; yet I shouldn’t want any human being to be torn alive by wolves.”