“Just as you told us when you were leaving camp, we may meet again, Andrew Waller,” Dick said, with an unmistakable meaning in his voice.
“Oh! that is possible,” the other jauntily added, purposely misunderstanding what the boy meant; “for it may be M’sieu Lascelles, he would wish to see for himself that you are comfortable, so for that reason we might journey into the Dacotah country ourselves.”
With that thrust he waved his hand to them, and, turning, walked away as he had come. None of the Indians paid the least heed to his movements; but Roger almost choked in his indignation.
“Just to think, Dick,” he muttered in a quivering voice, “the beast is carrying my dear old gun which he took from our red guide, on his shoulder. How much I will miss it, because, ever since I’ve been able to look along the sights of a rifle, that gun has been my companion day and night.”
“We shall hope that in some way or other you will see it again,” Dick told him. “Even if not, there are others just as sure shooters at the camp. The one he used to own, and which they refused to let him carry off, is even a better-made weapon than yours.”
“Yes, but that gun has associations away above its value in money,” said Roger, heaving a sigh; “and at the best the chances of my ever handling it again are three against one.”
“Well, we must try to think of other things now,” Dick told him.
“You mean about escaping from our captors, don’t you, Dick? What if we can convince them that Waller is a man with a double tongue, and that what he told them about our being the sons of the Great White Father at Washington is only a package of lies?”
“Of course we can try, but I’m afraid it will be useless, because the Indians want to believe that wonderful story. See how all of them are examining my gun now. I suppose every one of them is picturing himself as owning just such a marvelous weapon that ‘spits out fire,’ and kills the game just as thunder and lightning do in the storm.”