That was just before old Two Knives gathered all the English he knew to question his prisoners. He saw at a glance that the men before him were only a part of a large party. The fires and the signs left of the breakfast which had been eaten were quite enough for that, not to speak of the size of the outfit.
"How many?" he asked.
Bill held up both hands, with the fingers spread, twice, and then one hand.
"Ugh! How hurt arm?"
"Fight with Apaches."
"Ugh! Good. Where gone? All pale-face braves?"
"Hunt Apaches. Out there."
"Ugh! Hope find 'em. Kill half. Lipans kill rest. Kill pale-face too. Put down gun. Prisoner, this time. Shut mouth."
Bill had never in his life seen an uglier expression on the face of a man than was worn by that of the Lipan chief at that moment.
There was no use in resistance. Silently the three miners permitted themselves to be deprived of all their weapons, but the "stripping" stopped there. A brave who reached out his hand for the battered hat on the head of Bill was checked by To-la-go-to-de.