“Nary a white one,” he said; “but look yonder—up-stream I mean. D’ye see thet conical island?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I live there.”
“I see no house.”
“Ye’ll see it d’rectly. The cottonwoods hide it now.”
“How long have you dwelt yonder?”
“Nigh onto six years. I was with the ’Paches awhile, but we hed a slight difficulty, so I came north, and squatted on Pawnee territory. Tecumseh and I hev enjoyed life splendidly here.”
“Unmolested by the Indians?”
“Well—no. If it hadn’t been fur thet Tom Kyle, I’d hev been scalped long ago. The red greasers caught me when I first squatted here; but thet white devil happened to hev a streak of mercy on then, and he made ’em let me go. Then he gave me liberty to trap on the Loup, and its branches, so long as I behaved myself. But I haven’t done thet of late. Tecumseh and Shack have helped more’n one emigrant out of a scrape, and I’ve been looking for Tom Kyle every day for two months. It’s human natur’ to help a suffering fellar human; and I’ve killed nigh onto as many Pawnees as beaver within the last thirty days. But the safety jig is up now, I feel it in my bones. Tom Kyle won’t keep off much longer, and he is a reg’lar thunderbolt, he is, by Joshua!”
By this time the river had been reached, and a small hut was visible on the island, that lay in the center of the glittering water.