“You ain't got any? Then what in blazes are you doing here all by yourself?” demanded Jim; he was quite indignant.
The child made no response to this, but his restless glance searched the faces of the two men. His expression was one of dark mistrust; it almost seemed that he meditated flight; but the Missourian's hand was on his shoulder.
“And so you ain't got no pa?” said the latter ingratiatingly, for he recognized something of the boy's distrust and suspicion, though he was quite at a loss to account for it.
“He's dead,” and his lips trembled pathetically.
“Dead,” repeated the Missourian after him.
“You knew that,” and the child turned on him with sudden fierceness, his small hands tightly clinched, and his eyes glittering feverishly.
“I suspicioned it,” said the Missourian.
“The Indians killed him!” the boy added dully.
“But I allow your pa put up a pretty stiff fight; it was on a hilltop, now warn't it? and your pa drove his teams up there and took out and fit them from behind the wagons—him and those who was with him?”
The child shrank from the questioner's touch, but he answered: