“_Kwish!_”
“Ah-ha!” grunted Jimmy. “_Kwish_, eh? If I ain’t mistaken, that means ye
refuse to have anythin’ to do with me. Now, me high-toned laddie-buck,
I’m bossin’ this perch, and if ye don’t do me biddin’ ye’ll be shakin’
hands with some of your happy-huntin’ ancestors.”
Jimmy stepped over, picked up the Indian’s knife and cut his bonds. The
Indian sat up and flexed his arms, while Jimmy leaned against the rock
wall, his .45 set at his hip. He was taking no chances this time. The
Indian got to his feet and looked around. Klooch crouched a few feet
away, blocking the Indian from the exit.
“_Lolo!_” snapped Jimmy, pointing at the unconscious Whitey. The Indian
stared at Jimmy and at Whitey.
“_Lolo,_” he clucked. “_Lolo?_”
Jimmy nodded.
“That means ‘to carry,’ don’t it? Well, go ahead and carry him down out
of this.”
“_Hyak lolo!_” snapped Jimmy impatiently.
Without a word the old Indian picked Whitey up in his arms, slung him
across his shoulder and started along the ledge, with Klooch going ahead
and Jimmy carefully bringing up the rear.
It was a strange procession around the narrow ledges and down the
chimney. Klooch never failed to watch the Indian, who, even with his
burden, was able to travel faster than Jimmy. The Indian blocked the
light from below so completely that Jimmy was forced almost to feel his
way down the chimney, and he had barely got into it before the Indian
and Whitey disappeared out the bottom.
Jimmy knew that the Indian had the start of him, and he skinned knee and
elbow in his rapid descent. He landed at the bottom in a shower of
rubble and jumped out onto a ledge, where he could look down.
The Indian had reached the bottom of the cliff, with Whitey, and now he
started to run for the brush, going straight toward Whistler, who was
tied in plain sight.
But the Indian made a great mistake when he started running. If he had
walked he might have reached the horse, but the minute he started
running Klooch knew that something was wrong. She had been undecided
what to do, but now she ran angling with the Indian, flashed between his
legs and threw him spinning. Before he could get up she was on him,
pinning him down, her fangs at his throat.
Whitey was almost flung into the brush and seemed to collapse, like a
dummy figure, cast aside. Jimmy hurried down over the stone steps and
went to Whitey. He was still alive. In the fall his forehead had come in
contact with a sharp rock, which did not improve his condition to any
great extent. He was still unconscious.
Jimmy went over to the Indian. Being thrown into the slide-rock had not
helped him physically but the sullen glare seemed to have left his eyes
and a look of half-intelligence had taken its place.
“Whisky!” he grunted.
Klooch surged forward at the sound of his voice, but Jimmy drew her
aside. The Indian got to his feet and felt tenderly of a skinned elbow.
He looked at Jimmy and at Whitey and mumbled something under his breath.
“What did ye say?” asked Jimmy.
“_Halo kumtuks_,” he replied slowly, shaking his head.
“You don’t understand, eh?” grunted Jimmy. “Well, me red-corpuscled
friend, I’m glad ye’ve got to a point where ye’ll admit it. Bud Deal
came near knockin’ the _kumtuks_ out of ye for good. You _sabe_ Bud Deal
_mamook poh mesika_?”
The old Indian stared at Jimmy for a moment and then slowly touched his
hand to his forehead.
“Bud Deal?” he asked, half-clucking, half-hissing the English name.
“Sure he shot ye,” nodded Jimmy, and pointed at the horse and at Whitey.
“Put him on the horse. You _sabe_? _Lolo kiuatan_.”
The Indian limped over to Whitey, picked him up in his arms and
approached Whistler. Jimmy soothed the animal, while the Indian placed
Whitey on the saddle.
“Now, that’s the —— of it all!” grunted Jimmy. “He won’t stay on and
I’ve no rope.” Jimmy scratched his head for a moment. “The Whistler will
likely pitch like the divil, with two on his back; but mebbe I can hold
him down until he gets used to it.
“_Mesika klatawa kopa kiuatan_.” This to the Indian, ordering him to
ride on the horse.
Jimmy held Whistler tight while the Indian crawled on behind the saddle,
steadying Whitey as he got on. The half-broke outlaw surged and humped
its back wickedly, but Jimmy held its head tight, talking soothingly.
The nature of the ground precluded any chance for Whistler to buck, and
cause serious injury to himself, and after a few moments, Jimmy led the
way around the base of the Devil’s Pulpit, leading the horse by the
reins, while the old Indian rode behind the saddle with both arms around
the unconscious Whitey. Beside the horse paced the wolf-dog. Straight
across the hills they went, heading for Oxbow—twelve miles away.