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Updated: May 13, 2025
"Let us spread," said a hunter, "and keep wide over the paraira, till we've got clar past the Apash trail. They won't notice a single track hyar and thyar, I reckin." "Ay, but they will, though," rejoined another. "Do ye think an Injun's a-goin' to pass a shod horse track 'ithout follerin' it up? No, siree!" "We kin muffle the hoofs, as far as that goes," suggested the first speaker. "Wagh!
'Ee up, niggur," he continued, grasping the long hair of the savage, and holding the face upward; "let's get a squint of your phisog. Hooraw! Coyote 'Pash! Hooraw!" And a gleam of triumph lit up the countenance of the old man as he uttered these wild exclamations. "Apash, is he?" asked one of the hunters, who had remained near the spot.
"Who do you think they are?" asks Frank Hamersley, the proprietor of the assaulted caravan. "Are they Comanches, Walt?" "Yis, Kimanch," answers the individual thus addressed; "an' the wust kind o' Kimanch. They're a band o' the cowardly Tenawas. I kin tell by thar bows. Don't ye see that thar's two bends in 'em?" "I do." "Wal, that's the sort o' bow the Tenawas carry same's the Apash."
But the words followed one another in quick succession. There was no rest. She had no chance to collect herself. I noted the marked difference in the reaction time and, in my sympathy, damned this cold; scientific third degree. "Paris." "France." "Quartier Latin." "Students." "Apaches." Craig gave it its Gallicised pronunciation, "Apash." "Really, Dr.
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