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A man scrambled up the bank in response to the call. The two Spaniards sat upon the bank of the bayou, and held a long consultation in their native language. It was eleven o'clock when Pepillo, alias Turlipe, arose to go back to the tavern. "You needn't come along, Vexeranno; I can do the job without help. Only stay here and wait. Have the skiff ready to carry us down stream as fast as we can row.
Expurgated of much grossness and profanity, the discursive talk, in this hiding place of criminals, may be partially reproduced as follows. The chief is first to speak: "There was a French hunter, who hid a lot of skins in a clearing close by Red River, at a place called 'Cache la Turlipe. Are you akin to that Turlipe?" The sullen man shook his head. "Have you been in the business before this?"
"I'll go hunt him." "You'll be back and bunk here, or will you sleep on one of the boats?" asked Cacosotte. "If it's all the same to you, I'll come back and bunk here." The night was advancing, and the great white owls were beginning a dismal hooting in the cypress trees. Upon reaching the place where the boats were moored to the bushy shore of the bayou, Turlipe called: "Hello, are you there?"
The least conspicuous individual in the room was a sullen, suspicious, cat-footed man, who kept his slouch hat pulled over his face, and sat apart, smoking a pipe. He was a fresh recruit, and had given his name as Turlipe. Only one day had he been sworn to the service of the brigands, promising to do the bidding of their chief, Burke Pierce.
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