five.”
Squires chuckled. “He’s curious. They’ve got him puzzled, Scott, an’ it seems to me he’s real interested. He wants to see how they’re getting on, an’ what they have to eat.”
“Hardy knows a good deal about getting along in the outdoors, if he’ll just use his head.”
“He’s got his troubles,” Darrow put in. “There’s a lot he can’t fix to eat because he’s got no dish or pot. For somebody travelin’ light, I’d say he’s gettin’ along all right.”
“How far are we behind him now?” Scott asked.
“Two, three days. Maybe four.…He travels awful slow at times, an’ I figure he didn’t make over four, five miles the first day out. Maybe less the next day. But when he can get up on that horse they usually make good time.”
They were in camp when Collins suddenly looked around at the others. “I’m afraid he’ll quit the trail.”
“I’ve been thinkin’ on that, too,” Squires agreed. “The way I see it, it’s his only chance to get away from that Injun. Might not do it even then, for the Injun is good on readin’ sign, but if he could pick the right time he might ride north an’ get into the deeper woods, cut across until he hits the foothills of the Wind River Range, an’ then cut down for Bridger. The boy might do just that. He’s thinkin’, all he can.”
“I wish they were dressed warmer,” Scott said.
“Yeah…so do I.”
A SHAWAKIE WAS THINKING about the cold, too, but not in the same way. Several times he was sure he would catch the Little Warrior, but each time they had slipped away somehow. In their camps, they kept the fire small, as an Indian does, and huddled close to it, but the wind was blowing cold off the mountains where there was snow. At any time the streams might begin to freeze along the edges, and the Little Warrior and the small girl would be cold.
But Ashawakie was not thinking of them with pity. That they might suffer from the cold aroused no response in him. He was simply aware of the fact, curious as to what they might do, and he knew that he must calculate upon it in searching out their camps.
He had known few white men, and no white women or children. Many of his people had known them, and some had spoken of them with favor; but most Cheyennes had only known the white man to fight him or to steal his horses, though the Cheyennes placed less emphasis on the virtue of stealing horses than did the Comanches.
Ashawakie was no more concerned with the feelings of the children than he would be with those of wolf cubs. The horse was what he wanted, but he was much interested in the way the Little Warrior faced his problems.
The Indian did not, as yet, realize that he, too, was followed. As did all Indians, he watched his back trail, but the three white men were still too far behind him for him to know about it. Had he guessed they were following him, he might have made a desperate effort to catch the children, kill them, and take the horse. He was now too far from his own wickiup to think of taking them back as prisoners.
But Ashawakie had more to think of than the children and the horse, for he was nearing the place of one of his greatest tests. It had happened three years ago, when he met the bear.
The Cheyenne was thirty-five years old and a strong warrior now, but he admitted to himself that when he met the bear he had known fear—for the first and only time.
The bear was a grizzly, and Ashawakie had come upon him unexpectedly. He had seen at once that the grizzly was in no good frame of mind. Some animals, like some men, are born with a chip on their shoulder, and the grizzly had a chip on his. He saw Ashawakie on the narrow trail, and Ashawakie whipped up his rifle and fired.
The bullet struck and the grizzly lunged, snarling. There was no chance to reload, and the Indian jammed the rifle into the bear’s jaws and grabbed his hunting knife. The bear slapped the rifle from his jaws; Ashawakie got one swipe at an
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