INJUN TALKS
That night, in the bunk house, Bill Jordan was holding forth to a select
few--Jim Walker, Charlie Bassett, Buck Higgins, and Shorty Palmer; all
old friends and true, who could dispute and quarrel with one another
without the serious results that would have attended such action on the
part of strangers.
"Talkin' 'bout Injuns," said Bill, "all I don't know 'bout 'em you c'd
write on a hummin'-bird's finger-nail."
"Hummin'-birds don't have no finger-nails," corrected Shorty Palmer.
"Sure they don't," allowed Bill. "But you c'd write it on one if they
did."
"They has claws," persisted Shorty. "B'sides, no hummin'-bird ain't
goin' t' stay still long enough for you to write on his claw."
"I know that, too," said Bill. "That thing I was sayin' is what's called
a figger o' speech. Same as 'independent as a hog on ice,' or 'dead as
a door nail.' Ev'body knows them things ain't independent or dead. It's
just a fancy way o' expressin' yourself. Can't you give a feller credit
for no 'magination?"
"Oh, you got 'magination all right," Shorty agreed. "You ain't in no
ways hampered by facts. But, anyway, we wasn't talkin' 'bout Injuns."
"No, but we was goin' to," retorted Bill, "for I was about t' d'rect th'
conversation in them channels when you makes them ign'rant
interruptions."
"Oh, go on an' talk, Bill," Jim Walker broke in. "Don't pertend that
Shorty, nor th' whole United States Army, c'd stop you if you wanted t'
chin."
Thus urged Bill began his discourse. "What started my mind workin' on
this here Injun question was somethin' that come up to-day," he said.
"John Big Moose bein' gone, you know, Mr. Sherwood writes me that Injun
an' Whitey is t' go to school over to th' Forks. So on my way back from
drivin' John t' th' Junction I stops at that there temple o' knowledge,
as th' feller says, t' prepare th' mind o' Jennie Adams, what teaches
there, for th' comin' of this bunch of new scholards.
"Y' all know Jennie, old Hog Adams's daughter. Th' one with th' wart on
her chin, that was engaged for matrimoney to Sid Gilman till one day
they was ridin' t'gether, an' Sid's cayuse slips into a gopher hole, an'
Sid falls off an' sprains his ankle, an' lets loose such a string o'
cuss words that Jennie--"
"Say, Bill," protested Buck Higgins, "'f you couldn't shoot no
straighter'n you c'n talk you'd be a mighty poor risk for a insurance
comp'ny. Nev' mind this here Jennie's history from th' time of th'
flood. Get down t' th' present day."
"Well," Bill continued reluctantly, "I tells Jennie 'bout Injun an'
Whitey's bein' 'bout t' be added to her string o' pupils, an' what d'ye
s'pose she responds? That there ain't nothin' doin' with Injun. That
Whitey, bein' a paleface, is entitled t' absorb all th' knowledge he c'n
hold, but that Injun, bein' copper-colored, has got t' get along with
other brunettes of his kind, back in some school east of here,
'specially designated by a patern'l gov'ment."
"Did she say all them words?" demanded Charlie Bassett.
"Just like that," Bill replied. "'S though she knew 'em by heart. Must
'a' bin some circular, or somep'n' she'd learned aforehand."
"Well, what d'ye think o' that?" Jim Walker exploded. "Think o' that
John Big Moose, an' all he knows, an' him bein' allowed t' learn folks
in some Eastern high school, an' that there Jennie Adams, what don't
know enough t' tell time by a kitchen clock, not bein' puhmitted t'
learn Injun nothin'. It ain't right."
Bill Jordan leaned back, well satisfied with the effect he had produced.
"'Course it ain't right," he said. "Th' reason for it is that th'
cemetery o' learnin' where John's goin' t' teach is a private
institootion, an' this here shack o' Jennie's is controlled by th'
gov'ment. I ain't no anarkiss, but--"
"What's an anarkiss?" interrupted Buck.
"A feller what's ag'in' th' gov'ment," explained Bill. "You can't make
me b'lieve that our Injun ain't as good as th' scholards at Jennie's
emporium. Take that potato-faced brother Jim of hers, f'r instance,
that's a coyote in 'pearance an' a rattlesnake at heart. Why, Injun's
a--a--prince of timber buck too compared t' him."
Bill did not know what a Prince of Timbuctoo was, and neither did the
other punchers, but it sounded impressive, and served to vent his
feelings against a law which affected his friend Injun--for as such
Bill, and all the men in the bunk house, regarded the boy.
There may have been reasons why the Indian children were kept from
association with whites. But in the minds of these men of the plains,
who knew both the bad and the good in the red men, and the bad and the
good in the white men of that day and that country, the reasons were not
founded on justice. Furthermore, they were conceived by lawmakers far
away. So the cowboys vented their feelings against what seemed to them
rank injustice.
"But t' get back t' what I know 'bout Injuns," said Bill, after the
discussion had gone on for some time. "What d'ye s'pose our Injun
thinks 'bout this here rule as says he ain't as good as that pie-faced
Jim Adams? He knows 'tain't right, same as we do, an' he thinks to
himself, 'Here's another thing I got t' put up with, an' if I rare up
an' make a row 'bout it, I'll get th' wuss of it, as my people always
has. So what'll I do? I'll lay low, an' say nothin', an' I won't give
them white brothers no chance t' see that they've hurt my feelin's. I'll
hide my hurt with my pride--one o' th' only things my white brothers has
left me.'"
There was silence for a moment in the bunk house. Then Jim Walker spoke.
"Well, Injun may think that," he said. "But whatever he thinks you won't
never really know. He's that savin' o' speech, like all Injuns."
"They're savin' enough o' speech here, 'mongst us folks," Bill Jordan
said. "But with their own people they're great speech-makers."
"G'wan," objected Buck Higgins. "Who ever heard of a Injun talkin'
much."
"Yes, siree," Bill declared. "They're great talkers 'mongst folks they
knows and trusts. Why, at their pow-wows they're reg'lar orators.
Ev'body knows that what's had a lot t' do with 'em, same as me. John Big
Moose was easy with white folks, an' look the way he could spill
langwidge. 'Most as good as we all."
The others silently agreed to this, thinking what a great advantage it
would be to John Big Moose in the Eastern college to talk as well as
they did.
"Our Injun boy could talk as well as John Big Moose, if he was usin' his
own speech, an' wanted to," continued Bill. "He's rather jerky now
'count of his not knowin' our langwidge very well, for one thing, an'
from bein' in th' habit of concealin' his thoughts from white men--like
all other Injuns--for another thing."
Now you, who read this, must know by this time how well Bill Jordan
liked to tell things and to prove them--if he could; and if he couldn't
make the other fellow believe they were true, to think up something the
other fellow couldn't answer; and if he couldn't do that, to go away
before the other could think of an answer. We all have known boys or men
of this sort, and, being human, we don't like to have them assuming
that they know more than we do. That is, we don't like it all the time.
And this sort of feeling was stirring in that bunk house, at that
moment. And finally Charlie Bassett spoke.
"Bill," he said, "you're allus tellin' us somethin' 'bout somethin' what
we don't know nothin' 'bout, with th' idee of gettin' us t' think you're
a pretty wise feller. Now, all this you've bin tellin' us 'bout Injuns
_sounds_ reason'ble, but if you want us to really b'lieve it, you've got
t' show us. Ain't that so, fellers?"
The others, thus appealed to, nodded solemnly.
"How'm I goin' t' prove it?" asked Bill, thus driven into a corner.
"By gettin' Injun t' talk," Charlie answered. "An' furthermore I'll
betcha a can of peaches or a apple pie for each one of this gang, all
'round, that you can't prove it."
Canned peaches are regarded as a great luxury in the West, or were at
that time, to say nothing of apple pies, and Bill considered the matter.
Moreover, his reputation was at stake, and that was a bigger thing to
him than peaches or apple pie either. After careful thought he spoke.
"I'll have t' go you," he said, "but there's two conditions to this here
contest."
"Give 'em a name," said Charlie.
"Th' first is, that Injun's gotta be among friends."
"We're all his friends," Charlie said. "Won't we do?"
"Yes, just us an' Whitey, if he's along," Bill agreed. "The next
condition is, that I don't agree t' make Injun talk direct on no
subject. F'r instance, if I asks him what he thinks 'bout bein' barred
out o' that there school, I don't promise he'll tell me right out. He
may spring some tale or yarn that shows what he thinks; mebbe he will,
but I don't claim t' get no exact expression of his feelin's in th'
matter."
"Them conditions goes," Charlie agreed, "don't they, fellers?"
The "fellers" agreed that they did, and it now only remained to await
the coming of Injun. He was Whitey's guest at the ranch house that
night, the night of the last day of Whitey's freedom from school. As it
was early, no doubt the boys would soon appear at the bunk house, to
listen to the sort of Arabian Nights' entertainment that was afforded by
the tales of the cowpunchers.
There was a momentary lull in the talk of the men, a lull in keeping
with the outer night, which was still and very dark. Presently a faint
light flickered across the southern windows of the bunk house, followed
by a low rumble in the northeast.
"Storm in th' mountains," volunteered Jim.
Another moment of silence was followed by a brighter glare, as the sky
in the south caught the reflection of the northern lightning. The former
rumble was succeeded by a more distinct series of crashes, as though the
storm gods of Indian belief were warming up to their work.
"Reck'n she's comin' this way," said Bill Jordan.
There was the sighing of a gentle breeze through the cottonwoods, then a
glare that shamed the oil lamps, and, so fast that it almost might be
said to trip on the light, a crash that caused the men to turn and
regard one another, almost in awe.
"Them mountain storms sure comes downhill fast," said Shorty.
As though announced by the breeze a roar of wind tore through the trees,
and shook the bunk house windows. The darkness was split by vivid,
bluish-green flashes to which the thunder responded in an almost
constant cannonading. The door opened, and Injun and Whitey forced their
way in, then threw their weight upon it in the effort to close it
against the force of the wind. Bill went to their aid.
"Funny how th' wind allus swings 'round with them storms," said Bill,
when the door was closed. "Seems t' back up an' get underneath 'em, then
push 'em from behind."
"We've missed the rain, anyway," gasped Whitey, sinking down on a bunk.
"Not by much," said Bill, as the swish of a downpouring torrent sounded
on the walls and roof and hissed through the bending branches of the
cottonwoods.
Gradually the thunder drew grumblingly away. The wind ceased to clamor,
and for a time the rain, relieved of the gale's force, fell straight in
a steady tattoo on the roof. Then it passed, and a slighter coolness of
the air, noticeable even in the closeness of the bunk house, was the
only token left of the storm's spurt of fury.
"Them storms is like some folks' money; comes hard and goes easy," said
Shorty Palmer.
"Comes quick an' goes quicker's more like it," corrected Bill Jordan.
"Have it your own way," grumbled Shorty. "Not that I have t' tell you
that, for you'd have it, anyway."
Now that the momentary interruption of the summer tempest had passed,
the minds of the company turned to the subject of Bill and Charlie's
wager, with the object of it, Injun, sitting on a cracker box and gazing
solemnly at nothing in particular. The other men all looked expectantly
at Bill, who fidgeted a moment in his chair, then started, in what he
intended for a light, conversational tone.
"Y' all ready for school to-morrow, Whitey?" Bill began, on his
roundabout attack.
"Yeh," Whitey replied gloomily.
"Too bad 'bout you, Injun. Kind o' disappointin', their barrin' you out.
Kind o' unfair, too."
Injun's response to this was as broad a grin as he ever showed to the
world. "Me glad," he said. "No like school."
This was rather a setback to Bill, who had expected to play on Injun's
feeling of resentment. He rolled a cigarette and planned a new line of
attack. He knew that all the punchers would be glad to see him fail to
make Injun talk, and this didn't make Bill any more easy in his mind. It
may have been pleasing to him to have worked up a reputation for knowing
more than the others, but this reputation was not without its drawbacks.
For one thing, it was hard to keep it up; for another, it filled his
friends with glee when he failed to keep it up. He puffed hard on his
cigarette, and thought harder.
Whitey broke the silence. "Tell us a story, Bill," he suggested.
"I ain't exactly got no story in mind," Bill replied. "We was talkin'
'bout folks, b'fore you an' Injun come, an' how they is apt t' be
unjust, 'specially in th' way o' makin' laws an' such, an' it kind o'
got me thinkin' serious; kind o' drove stories out o' my head."
"Why, John Big Moose was talking about that the other day," Whitey
exclaimed, "and how hard it is for one body of people to understand and
sympathize with another, and about that sayin', 'Man's inhumanity to man
makes countless thousands mourn.' Of course, you know that saying.
Bill?"
"'Course," answered Bill. "My father was allus mentionin' of it."
"Your old man was a blacksmith, wa'n't he, Bill?" Buck Higgins asked.
"Sure."
"Seems t' me 'twould 'a' bin more in the way o' sense if he'd talked
'bout man's unhumanness t' hosses," Buck said lightly.
Bill ignored this, and got back to the serious side of the subject.
"It's somethin' t' make a critter think," he declared. "Take white folks
an' Injuns, f'r instance. They ain't never rightly understood each
other, 'cause they ain't never bin rightly in tune with each other, an'
that's another way o' sayin' they ain't bin in symp'thy. An' th' only
way they could get that way would be t' tell, outspoke, what they thinks
o' each other. Now they's Injun, here. He's bin our friend for some
time, an' we bin his, but no one ain't never knowed his _real_ 'pinion
of us, an' I think it'd be some help in adjustin' matters all round if
we did."
Shielding his mouth with his hand, Shorty Palmer turned to Buck Higgins,
and spoke in a hoarse whisper, that could be heard distinctly by
everybody. "Bill's like one o' them big express trains you see at th'
Junction," Shorty hissed. "Takes him some time t' get started, but he
gets somewheres when he does."
Bill tried to look as though he hadn't heard this, and turned to Injun,
with what was supposed to be an expression of brotherly frankness on his
face. "Just among friends, Injun, d'ye think white folks as a class
stacks up perty good?"
Injun stared at Bill. "Huh," he grunted. "Mebbe some good, mebbe some
bad."
"O' course," said Bill, "they's good an' bad 'mongst 'em, but I mean t'
stack 'em up against Injuns, as a whole tribe, see?"
"Injuns same way. Mebbe some good, mebbe some bad."
This did not seem to be getting anywhere, and Bill became more personal.
"Now, Injun, honest," he said, "don't you think your people are
underdogs in these here conditions the whites have forced 'em into, an'
that they got a constant grouch against most whites?"
"My people good people. Him see straight," Injun replied, with dignity.
Bill was sorry now that he had started on this line of attack. He knew
that the Min-i-ko-wo-ju tribe, a branch of the Sioux or Dakotas, of
which Injun was a member, had been treated very fairly by Mr. Sherwood,
Whitey's father. That largely through the influence of Mr. Sherwood,
aided and abetted by John Big Moose, the educated Dakota, the
Min-i-ko-wo-jus had come in for their share of the recently discovered
gold mine. He also knew that gratitude was a strong factor in the Indian
character.
But with all his boasted knowledge of his red brothers, what Bill did
not know was what Injun was thinking of, and that was something
unconnected with his white brothers, or their justice or injustice to
his kind. It was something induced by the stillness of the night,
following the storm. Thoughts of another night, when Injun was not in a
long, narrow bunk-house room, surrounded by booted cowboy friends, but
in a tepee, dimly lighted by a central fire, around which squatted his
serious-faced, copper-hued kinsmen, smoking their long pipes, and
telling of their deeds and mishaps.
And when his mind was fixed on a subject, Injun--like other Indians--was
not to be deflected by the thoughts of others. Bill might talk and talk
of justice and injustice, or about cows or cartridges; Injun's mind
would stay put, and when he spoke, if it was two hours afterwards, it
would be of that night in the tepee.
But it was not that long before the silence that had fallen on the men
was broken. Bill was trying to think of another line of argument that
would induce Injun to speak at length. Whitey, who knew Injun better
than any one else, was looking at him, and realizing that he had
something on his mind. "Why don't you tell us a story, Injun?" Whitey
asked.
There was another long pause in the bunk house, and nothing could be
heard save the ticking of the alarm clock that was Wong's special
property, on which he relied to give him his three a.m. call to
get the punchers' breakfast ready by sunup. And then Injun spoke, he who
rarely talked, save in monosyllables.
"When owl sleep; when thunder don't beat drum; when wind don't make
noise like big whistle; when trees stand straight up and don't bend;
when everything quick is in hole; when Great Spirit he make sign and
everybody him sleep--then I hear my papa tell story about my mamma's
brother; how he get 'um fingers worn off on end. My mamma's brother him
great buck; call him 'buck' when him brave, before him made Chief.
"My mamma's brother him know white man scout, great friend my mamma's
brother. Him talk Indian talk, just like Sioux. My mamma's brother
friend him work for army; him watch when Indian go on war path. Him good
man. Him like Indian. Him know Indian no bad.
"My mamma's brother friend him say to my mamma's brother him like to
bring his friend, White Chief, to Indian war dance. Him say White Chief
he no tell what he see. My mamma's brother he say no: White Chief, with
much ribbon on clothes, have crooked tongue. My mamma's brother friend
he say White Chief he no tell; give word before Great Spirit. My mamma's
brother then he say come."
As the clipped sentences fell in soft gutturals from Injun's lips his
face remained expressionless, except for his eyes, which gazed back into
the dim, smoke-laden tepee and into the face of his father, a great
story-teller of a race of great story-tellers; a survivor of the age-old
days when the deeds and legends of all men were made history by the
voice alone. And the men, their wager forgotten, and Whitey, too, leaned
forward and saw the tepee and saw Injun's uncle talking to the scout,
whom he trusted, and who trusted the White Chief.
In what followed, Injun left some of the details to the imagination of
his hearers, or perhaps thought that they knew of them. Of how, before
the great war dance, the chiefs of the tribe assembled in conclave in
their council tent. And before these chiefs, who sat as a sort of jury,
appeared the young men of the tribe. And each young Indian told of his
brave deeds, performed since the last war dance, and according to these
deeds the chiefs decided whether the young man was worthy to become a
chief.
He needed no witnesses; his word was sufficient--for the Indian spoke
only the truth. And the descendant of a chief was held more worthy of
honor than another, for brave blood flowed in his veins. But after each
young man was deemed worthy, he must prove his bravery at the dance.
From a center pole hung a number of rawhide thongs. Through the breast
or back of each young brave two slits were cut, and a stick or skewer
was passed through them, and a thong tied to each end of the skewer.
Then the braves danced around the pole, leaning back and supporting
their weight on the skewer, and when this weight tore the skewer from
the flesh, the braves were deemed worthy to become chiefs. But should
one give up, or faint from pain, he was deemed unworthy. And the torture
suffered by all was great--but the torture borne by those through whose
backs the skewers were passed was greater.
"White Chief and scout come to Indian war dance," Injun continued. "At
dance, when braves make talk and tell how they do things what make 'em
chief, my mamma's brother he tell how him ride on prairie and see two
white men. Him ride to them quick to show him friend. White men say
Injun bad. White men shoot at my mamma's brother. My mamma's brother him
shoot at white men. Him kill white men. My mamma's brother him made
chief, after him dance with stick through breast until stick break.
"Scout, my mamma's brother friend, and White Chief they go 'way. My
mamma's brother friend him say to White Chief, 'You see now why you no
tell. Injun him good, no blame. White men they bad, want kill Injun.'
"White Chief him say, 'No, Injun bad. Me tell.'"
"Him go back and--"
The door of the bunk house opened suddenly and a cowboy stalked in, a
lean, dark man, rather short and slim, with eyes of that peculiar light,
slaty gray that have a staring effect; apparently no depth to them.
These, with heavy overhanging brows and an inclination to sneer, gave
him a forbidding appearance. His hat and slicker glistened with water.
At his entrance Injun ceased speaking abruptly.
"Gee, I got soaked in that rain," said the newcomer. "Stopped at th' Cut
on my way back from th' Junction. Th' railroad hands got paid, to-day,
an' they're raisin' cain. Wisht I'd stayed there, 'stead o' gettin'
soaked."
"I wish you had, too," Bill Jordan murmured to himself, unheard by the
other.
This puncher, Henry Dorgan, was a man who was vaguely disliked on the
ranch, with nothing in particular on which to hang the cause of the
feeling. It was characteristic of him, for one thing, that he had no
nickname. In a country where almost every one's name was familiarly
shortened into Hank, or Bill, or Jim, or was changed to Kid, or Red, or
Shorty, he remained Henry--not even Harry.
He threw off his hat and slicker, stamped to shake off the moisture that
clung to his boots, sat down, and prepared to make himself at home.
"Go ahead, Injun," said Jim Walker. "You was just at th' most
interestin' part."
Injun rose, walked to a bucket in a corner, poured himself a dipper of
water, and drank calmly. Then he returned, sat down and looked straight
ahead of him. There was a painful tension, of which Dorgan did not seem
to be aware. Buck Higgins tried to dispel it.
"Perceed, Injun," he said. "We're all a-waitin' on you."
Without embarassment, Injun continued to say nothing. Bill Jordan began
to show signs of nervousness, which finally broke into speech.
"Had anythin' t' eat, Henry?" he asked.
"Nope. Too busy drinkin' an' things, at th' Cut," replied Dorgan, who,
however, showed no signs of intoxication.
"Better go out t' th' kitchen, an' rustle yourself somep'n'," Bill
suggested.
"Wong'll get crazy if I monkey with his grub," objected Henry.
"I'll take care o' Wong. G'wan, you don't wanta be hungry," Bill said.
"I c'd do with some beans an' coffee," Dorgan allowed, and took himself
off.
After he was gone, there was another period of silence. It was so
unusual for Injun to talk at all, and the effort to start him again
having failed, it seemed now to occur to everybody that it probably
would be better to let him alone until he got in the mood again.
Presently Whitey saw Injun's eyes take on their former faraway look, as
though they were gazing into his father's tepee fire, or into the red
faces of his kinsmen.
"What did the White Chief do when he went back?" Whitey asked softly.
"Him go back and get plenty soldiers," responded Injun. "And come get my
mamma's brother, and tie him on pony, with him face looking at pony
tail. My mamma's brother him lose much blood where stick break through
chest. Him almost died when get to Fort. White Chief put him in log
calaboose. Him stay there long, long time; mebbe so twenty, thirty
moons.
"Then him dig dirt in floor with hands, and cover up when they bring him
bread and water--and he hide his hands all the time, fingers so much
bleed. Then when dark and no moon, him dig out last dirt, him come up
outside. Him run sixty mile, him come my father, him tell my father."
"My father he say to our people, 'Now, we fight, and we fight heap!'"
Injun paused for a moment, as one considering and about to utter
judgment. "White man bad. Injun he no bad," he said.
Injun's story was concluded. He rose and walked from the bunk house.
There was a moment's hush broken by Jim Walker. "Who in thunder d'ye
s'pose that White Chief was?" he demanded. "Gee! We sure butted into
some real Injun history."
"That's what I'm thinkin'," said Bill Jordan. "An' seein' as how Injun's
uncle was old Rain-in-the-Face, an' seein' as how th' old man's fingers
was all stubbed off at th' ends, an' seein' as how Lonesome Charlie
Reynolds, th' greatest scout what ever lived, was a great friend of th'
Injuns, an' spoke their langwidge, an' seein' as how he was scout for
General Terry, up at old Fort Buford, an' seein' as how that's where th'
Seventh Cavalry was quartered, an' seein' as how Captain Tom Custer was
always hated by th' Sioux, an' by old Rain-in-the-Face in partic'ler--by
golly, boys!--"
Bill paused, as he and the men were impressed by the important point to
which his line of argument was leading, then went on excitedly: "We only
have t' reason deflectively t' put our fingers on th' button what caused
th' doggonedest Injun fights this country ever knowed!"
"It begins, gee whiz! it begins--we all are all right, boys! It begins
in '75, with Injun's tribe. An' in '76, General Custer an' Captain Tom
Custer an' two hundred an' sixty-one o' their men was all wiped out. An'
them Injuns kep' right on fightin' till '81, when John Gall, th' big
Sioux Chief, surrenders at that big fight in th' snow, when it was
fifty-two below, an' them Injuns was fightin' in their skins, with no
coverin' but a blanket.
"Just think of it, boys. An' sittin' right here in this bunk house,
years an' years after, us cowpunchers get th' real cause o' th' whole
rumpus, which them Washington folks has bin figurin' out for years, an'
couldn't do it none whatever. Didn't I tell you all when a Injun talks
he says somethin'?"
There was no disputing this, and the men looked solemn as they
considered the series of great tragedies and the chain of circumstances
which had led up to them. Then, as the impression made on Bill Jordan
began to fade, and thoughts of his own importance to take its place, he
turned triumphantly to Jim Walker.
"Well, did I make Injun talk, an' do we get them peaches?" Bill
demanded.
"_You_ make him talk!" Jim returned scornfully. "All you did was t' make
him shut up. Whitey made him talk."
"G'wan," Bill retorted. "Didn't them suggestions o' mine 'bout white men
an' Injuns start him thinkin' 'bout that bad White Chief hombre? An'
didn't I get rid o' Henry Dorgan, 'cause Injun's distrustful of him, an'
wouldn't chin with him 'round?"
"'F y'ask for my opinion, I don't b'lieve none o' you made him talk,"
said Shorty Palmer. "I think he just--"
"I didn't ask for your opinion," Bill interrupted. "No feller c'n tell
me nothin' 'bout Injuns--"
But if this bunk house argument were followed to its end I should have
to write another book. Perhaps you can guess who paid for the peaches.