reckin. He's did that,
I'll be boun'."

"Ay, if he would," said I, thinking that Seguin might have followed the
captives, and thrown away his life recklessly.

"Don't be skeert about him, young fellur. The cap ain't a-gwine to put
his fingers into a bee's nest whur thur's no honey; he ain't."

"But where could he have gone, when you did not see him afterwards?"

"Whur could he 'a gone? Fifty ways he kud 'a gone through the brush. I
didn't think o' lookin' arter him. He left the Injun whur he had
throw'd him, 'ithout raisin' the har; so I stooped down to git it; an'
when I riz agin, he wa'n't thur no how. But that Injun wur. Lor'! that
Injun are some punkins; he are."

"What Indian do you mean?"

"Him as jined us on the Del Norte--the Coco."

"El Sol! What of him? is he killed?"

"Wal, he ain't, I reckin; nor can't a-be: that's this child's opeenyun
o' it. He kim from under the ranche, arter it tumbled; an' his fine
dress looked as spick as ef it had been jest tuk out o' a bandy-box.
Thur wur two at him, an', Lor'! how he fit them! I tackled on to one o'
them ahint, an' gin him a settler in the hump ribs; but the way he
finished the other wur a caution to Crockett. 'Twur the puttiest lick I
ever seed in these hyur mountains, an' I've seed a good few, I reckin."

"How was it?"

"'Ee know, the Injun--that are, the Coco--fit wi' a hatchet?"

"Yes."

"Wal, then; that ur's a desprit weepun, for them as knows how to use it;
an' he diz; that Injun diz. T'other had a hatchet, too, but he didn't
keep it long. 'Twur clinked out o' his hands in a minnit, an' then the
Coco got a down blow at him. Wagh! it wur a down blow, an' it wa'n't
nuthin' else. It split the niggur's head clur down to the thrapple.
'Twus sep'rated into two halves as ef 't had been clove wi' a broad-axe!
Ef 'ee had 'a seed the varmint when he kim to the ground, 'ee'd 'a
thort he wur double-headed. Jest then I spied the Injuns a-comin' down
both sides o' the bluff; an' havin' neyther beast nor weepun, exceptin'
a knife, this child tuk a notion 'twa'n't safe to be thur any longer,
an' cached; he did."

CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT.

SMOKED OUT.

Our conversation had been carried on in a low tone, for the Indians
still remained in front of the cave. Many others had arrived, and were
examining the skull of the Canadian with the same looks of curiosity and
wonderment that had been exhibited by their comrades.

Rube and I sat for some