“That’s one,” said Bounce, nodding; “Big Waller, we calls him.”
“I’m not sure that I can guess the others. Surely Tim Slater isn’t one?”
“No!” said Bounce, with an emphasis of tone and a peculiar twist of the point of his nose that went far to stamp the individual named with a character the reverse of noble. “Try agin.”
“I can’t guess.”
“One’s a French Canadian,” said Bounce; “a little chap, with a red nose an’ a pair o’ coal-black eyes, but as bold as a lion.”
“I know him,” interrupted March; “Gibault Noir—Black Gibault, as they sometimes call him. Am I right?”
“Right, lad; that’s two. Then there’s Hawkswing, the Injun whose wife and family were all murdered by a man of his own tribe, and who left his people after that an’ tuck to trappin’ with the whites; that’s three. An’ there’s Redhand, the old trapper that’s bin off and on between this place and the Rocky Mountains for nigh fifty years, I believe.”
“Oh, I know him well. He must be made of iron, I think, to go through what he does at his time of life. I wonder what his right name is?”
“Nobody knows that, lad. You know, as well as I do, that he wos called Redhand by the Injuns in consekence o’ the lot o’ grislies he’s killed in his day; but nobody never could git at his real name. P’r’aps it’s not worth gittin’ at. Now, them four ’ll be startin’ in a week or two for the mountains, an’ wot’s to hinder us a-jinin’ of them?”
To his own question Bounce, after a pause, replied with deliberate emphasis, “Nothin’ wotsomdiver;” and his young companion heartily echoed the sentiment.