“You bet. Why you wantum?”
“Givum letter. Me got letter. White man hurtum leg. No walk. Me go to Doc Milliken. Sabe?”
He fusses around in his blanket and produces a piece of paper. Chuck takes the paper and reads the few words. He hands me the letter and grins. It reads like this:
Hurt my leg. Follow the Injun to me.
There ain’t no name signed.
“Heap scared,” informs the Injun. “Hurtum leg on tree.”
“Where you camp?” asks Chuck, and we gets informed that it’s on Little Beaver Crick. Chuck gives him back the letter, and swings around. “So long, Setting Bull,” says he, and the Injun grins and bobs off down the road.
“Now where?” I asks, and Chuck grins, “Slippery Silverton!” he whoops. “If it was anybody around here they’d ‘a’ signed their name. He’s hived up with that Injun, and we’re going to land him, Henry. Maybe he’s got the gold, too.”
It didn’t take us long to find that camp. We advances on foot. There’s a white man setting on the sunny side of that teepee, and he’s in blissful ignorance until me and Chuck lands on his shoulders like two playful bears. He gets energetic, but Chuck taps him on the head with his gun, and we hog-ties him proper. When he opens his eyes Chuck grins at him an’ says—
“Hello, Slippery.”