“On the other side of yonder mountain range, where the chief’s village lies.”
Somewhat surprised at the trapper’s readiness to give the information required, and rendered a little suspicious, Stalker asked if he was ready and willing to guide him to the Indian village.
“Surely. If that’s the price I’m to pay for my life, it can be easily paid,” replied the trapper.
“Ay, but you shall march with your arms bound until we are there, and the fight wi’ the redskins is over,” said the robber-chief, “and if I find treachery in your acts or looks I’ll blow your brains out on the spot. My left hand, you shall find, can work as well as the right wi’ the revolver.”
“A beggar, they say, must not be a chooser,” returned the trapper. “I accept your terms.”
“Good. Here, Goff,” said Stalker, turning to his lieutenant, “bind his hands behind him after he’s had some supper, and then come an’ fix up this arm o’ mine. I think the bone has escaped.”
“Hadn’t we better start off at once,” suggested Drake, “an’ catch the redskins when they’re asleep?”
“Is it far off?” asked Stalker.
“A goodish bit. But the night is young. We might git pretty near by midnight, and then encamp so as to git an hour’s sleep before makin’ the attack. You see, redskins sleep soundest just before daybreak.”
While he was speaking the trapper coughed a good deal, and sneezed once or twice, as if he had a bad cold.