"Why don't you carry a shot gun?" asked Jack.
"Sometimes a rifle is better," he answered, quietly.
As we were getting ready for bed we noticed him take up the rifle again, make sure that the magazine was charged, and even throw a cartridge into the barrel. Then he sat with it over his arm, a few yards from the wagon.
At last our curiosity became too much for us, so Jack said, "What's the idea, Jake?"
Jake was smoking now, having changed off from chewing tobacco after supper. For a moment or two he sat, puffing silently. Then he got up and walked over beside us.
"I didn' mean to say nothin' about it to you lads," he said, in a low voice. "What you don' know you don' worry over. But since you ask me, old Sittin' Crow's been givin' trouble. He's off his reserve again, with a few rash bucks followin' him, an' if he should catch us unawares he'd likely dangle three new scalps at his belt. The buckskins, the democrat, an' the grub would look mighty good to Sittin' Crow."
I felt a strange tremor run up my spine. My scalp was still in place all right; I could feel the hair rising on it.
"Why didn't you tell us sooner," Jack remonstrated. "We should have had a rifle each. What is one rifle against a band like that?"
"One rifle, if it's pointed right, will puncture old Sittin' Crow, an' that's the last thing he's hopin' fer," said Jake. "With one rifle on guard we're safe as Sunday. Now you boys go to sleep, an' I'll jus' watch the camp."
"But you can't do that!" Jack insisted. "You can't sit up on guard all night and drive all day. We'll take our turn. Won't we, Frank?"