The task they had undertaken, however, proved even too much for the wily old half-breed, familiar with every foot of the swamps as he had been. For the fire had obliterated all the old landmarks, leaving a cover of charred grass and saplings in its wake which hid the treacherous deathpools, while from all about rose a steam sickening in its stench.
Wondering if they would ever be able to live through it and thanking their stars they were not obliged to walk, the cowboys were busy looking about them when the aged half-breed drew rein.
“No use. No make it,” he grunted, scanning the blackened, foul-smelling waste. “Only paleface and fools try go through um.”
“Much obliged for the comparison, but what do you propose to do?” asked Deadshot. “We sure can’t stay here. I believe I’d rather make a try at getting through on foot, by myself, than dying in this hole!”
“Who say stay here?” demanded Nig.
“What else is there to do, if you say we can’t go on?”
“Go back.”
“But what good will that do?”
This lack of ability to grasp his purpose, disgusted the aged scout.
“Say, you think Nig fool enuff to get in where only one way get out, like paleface?” he snorted. “We turn roun’ and go by the other trail.”