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Updated: May 5, 2025
Durn me! I'm still a wonderin' what Injuns they war; I'm a'most sartint thar the Tenawa Kimanch a band o' the Buffler-eaters an' the wust lot on all the parairia. Many's the fight we rangers used to hev wi' 'em, and many's the one o' 'em this child hev rubbed out.
"Fresh track, cap'n; buffler!" "What number; can you guess?" "A gang o' fifty or tharabout. They've tuk through the thicket yander-away. I kin sight the sky. Thur's clur ground not fur from us; and I'd stak a plew thur in it. I think it's a small parairia, cap." "Halt here, men!" said Seguin; "halt and keep silent. Ride forward, Rube.
His hide war black, too, or nigh to it; but ef that skunk wan't white un'erneath a coatin' o' charcoal an' vermilion then Walt Wilder don't know a Kristyun from a heethun. I ain't no use spek'latin' on't now. White, black, yella-belly, or red, they've put us afoot on the parairia, an' kim darned nigh wipin' us out althegither.
If ye can't go a great ways under kiver o' the night, I reck'n we kin put enough o' parairia atween us an' these Injuns to make sure agin thar spyin' us in the mornin'. So let's start south-eastart, an' try for the sources o' the Red. Thur's that ole beauty o' the North Star that's been my friend an' guide many's the good time.
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