On the top of a low hill a skeleton form outlined in fire shone gruesomely through the darkness. At intervals from this specter of fire came shrill and peculiar whistles, and high, quavering cries. Now and then low chuckles sounded.
“Nebby, I hope we didn’t skeer our friends inter fits, same’s we did them reds! Waugh! but them Injuns was runnin’! Ef a cyclone had struck thet camp plum’ center, it couldn’t ’a’ scattered things wuss.”
He whistled again, and emitted another quavering cry.
“Ef Pizen Kate ain’t fell down in a fit an’ died, Nebby, ’twill be a wonder! Fer a lady, Pizen Kate is ther wu’st ever.”
He ceased, and sat listening.
“I reckon, Nebby, thet when they started runnin’ they went so fast they ain’t had a chance yit ter stop. But these calls ort ter fetch ’em. Trouble is, mebbe they’ll also fetch Injuns. But ther skeleton looks o’ me ort ter keep ther Injuns away, I reckon. Injuns is got more superstition than sense. Otherwise, I reckon that yer rider, Nebby, would be layin’ dead about now by thet camp fire. ’Twar a desprit try, but we made it, ol’ hoss! And now if——”
He ceased again, for this time he had heard something.
“Waugh! Somebody, er somethin’, is comin’.”
He studied his horse’s ears, bending forward in the saddle to do so.
“No, ’tain’t Injuns! Ef ’twar Injuns, Nebby’d know it, and he’d be showin’ it. He says it’s white men. Mebbe, likewise, a white woman.”