human
I say, Tom (our driver), hark! Do you hear that?
gpt
Yes, Billy! What the deuce is it?
human
Why, good heavens, it must be the infernal Injuns, shure as you live! The d--d Red Skins, I reckon, hev jest stampeded that Government-train down the road thar; and they'll all be yer, licketty split, quicker than lightnin', you bet!
gpt
come what might; but concluded the stage-men knew more about such encounters than I did, and so followed their directions. Out I tumbled, gathered up all the rifles and revolvers I could lay my hands on, and rushed to the station-house, shouting
human
Indians! Indians!