“What! my pistols,” cried Bertram, seizing his weapons with as much delight as if they had been really serviceable.
“Hah! ver’ goot for play vid,” observed Gibault contemptuously.
“I say, here’s something else,” said Bounce, picking up a rifle.
“Wah!” exclaimed Hawkswing, pointing to the weapon in surprise, and turning his eyes on Redhand.
“Wot! d’ye know who it b’long’d to?” inquired Bounce.
An expression of deep sorrow overspread Redhand’s countenance. “Ay,” said he mournfully, “I know it well. It belonged to young Blake.” Glancing quickly up at a place where several scalps were hanging to a pole, he took one down, and, after gazing at it sadly for a few seconds, he added in a tone of deep melancholy: “Poor, poor Blake! ye had a hearty spirit an’ a kindly heart. Your huntin’ days were soon over!”
“Was he a friend of yours?” inquired Bertram, affected by the old trapper’s look and tone.
“Ay, ay, he was, he was,” said Redhand quickly, and with a sternness of manner that surprised his companions; “come, lads, mount! mount! The redskins won’t part with plunder without making an effort to get it back.”
“But, stop a bit, Redhand,” cried Bounce, detaining the old man, “ye didn’t use for to be so hot an’ hasty. Where are we to go to? That’s wot I want to know.”
“True,” observed Redhand in his old gentle tones, “we’ve more horses than we need, and some furs to dispose of. There’s a tradin’ fort in the mountains, but it’s a good bit from this.”