“I reckon I was throwed in. It was a man named Murrell and another man named Slosson. They tried fo' to murder me—they wanted to get my nevvy—I 'low they done it!” and Yancy groaned again.
“You'll get him back,” said Polly soothingly.
“Could you-all put me asho'?” inquired Yancy, with sudden eagerness.
“We could, but we won't,” said Cavendish, in no uncertain tone.
“Why, la!—you'd perish!” exclaimed Polly.
“Are we far from where you-all picked me up?”
Cavendish nodded. He did not like to tell Yancy the distance they had traversed.
“Where are you-all taking me?” asked Yancy.
“Well, stranger, that's a question I can't answer offhand. The Tennessee are a twister; mebby it will be Kentucky; mebby it will be Illinoy, and mebby it will be down yonder on the Mississippi. My tribe like this way of moving about, and it certainly favors a body's legs.”
“How old was your nevvy?” inquired Polly, reading the troubled look in Yancy's gray eyes.