A day after Reivers drove out of the Indian camp, Dumont's Camp had
something to talk about. A half-witted, crippled-up squaw-man went
through with a couple of squaws, and the youngest of the squaws was a
beaut'! The old bum hadn't stopped long, just long enough to trade a
chunk of caribou meat for a bottle of hooch, but long enough,
nevertheless, to let the gang get a peek at the squaws.
Dumont's Camp opined that it was a good thing for the old cripple that
he hadn't stayed longer, else he might have found himself minus his
squaws, especially the young one. But Dumont's Camp would have been
mightily puzzled had it seen how the limp and stoop went out of the
squaw-man's body the moment he had left their camp behind, how the
foolish leer and stuttering speech disappeared from his mouth, and how,
straight-backed and stern-visaged, he threw the bottle of hooch away in
contempt and hurried on toward Fifty Mile.
Reivers had played many strange parts in his tumultuous life, and his
squaw-man was a masterpiece. Fifty Mile had its sensation early next
morning. The half-witted, crippled-up squaw-man with the two extremely
desirable squaws came through, stopped for another bottle of hooch, and
drove on and made camp just outside the settlement.
"He certainly was one soft-headed old bum," said Jack Raftery, leaning
on the packing-case that served as bar in his logcabin saloon. "Yes,
men, he certainly is bumped in the bean and locoed in his arms. Gimme
that chunk o' meat there for a bottle o' hooch. 'Bout fifty pounds,
it'll weigh. I'd give 'im a gallon, but he grins foolish and says:
'Bottle. One bottle.' 'Drag your meat in,' says I. Well, gents, will you
b'lieve he couldn't make it. No, sir; paralysed in the arms or
something.
"That young squaw o' his did the toting. A beaut'? Gents, there never
was anything put up in a brown hide to touch it. An' that locoed ol' bum
running 'round loose with it. Tempting providence, that's what he is,
when he comes parading 'round real men-folks with skirts like them.
Shouldn't wonder if something'd happen to him one o' these cold days.
Looks like he might 'a' been an awful good man in his day, too. Well
built. Reckon he's been used mighty rough to be locoed and crippled up
the way he is."
"I reck-ong," drawled Black Pete, who ran the games at Raftery's when
there was any money in sight. "I reck-ong too mebbe he get handle more
rough some tam ef he's hang 'round long wid dem two squaw. Tha' small
squaw's too chic, she, to b'long to ol' bum lak heem."
The assembled gents laughed. Had they seen the "ol' bum" at that moment
their laughter would have been cut short. Reivers, in a gully out of
sight of the settlement, had thrown away his hooch, pitched camp,
tethered the dogs and made all secure with a swiftness and efficiency
that belied the characterisation Black Pete had applied to him. He had
the two tepees set up far apart, the dogs tied between them, and Tillie
and Neopa had one tepee, and Reivers the other, alone.
Having made camp, Reivers knew what the boys would expect of him in his
character of sodden squaw-man. Having resolved to use the most shameful
means in the world to achieve his end, he played his base part to
perfection.
"Do you take this chunk of meat," he directed Tillie, "and go down to
the saloon and get another bottle of hooch. Yes, yes; I know I have
destroyed one bottle. You are not to ask questions but to obey my
commands. Go down and trade the meat for hooch. Do not stop to speak to
the white men. Come, back at once. Go!"
But down in Raftery's the assemblage had no hint of these swift changes,
and they laughed merrily at Black Pete's remarks.
"What d'you reckon his lay is, Jack?" asked one.
"Booze," replied Raftery instantly. "Nothing else. When you see a man
who's sure been as good a man in his day as this relic, trailing 'round
with squaw folks, you can jest nacherlly whittle a little marker for him
and paint on it, ''Nother white man as the hooch hez got.' Sabbe? I
trace him out as some prospector who's got crippled up and been laying
out 'mongst the Indians with a good supply of the ol' frost-bite cure
'longside of 'im. Nothin' to do but tuh hit the jug offen enough to keep
from gettin' sober and remembering what he used to was. Sabbe? Been
layin' out sucking the neck of a jug till his ol' thinker's got twisted.
"I've seen dozens of 'em. You can't fool me when I see one, and I saw
him when he was comin' through the door. Ran out o' hooch and was afraid
he'd get sober, so he comes down here to get soaked up some more. Brings
his load o' meat 'long to trade in, an' these two brown dolls to make
sure in case the caribou have been down this way, which they ain't. Bet
the drinks against two bits that he'll be chasin' one o' the squaws down
here for another bottle before an hour's gone. They all do. I've seen
his kind before."
Black Pete took the bet.
"Because I'm onlucky, moi, lately, an' I want to lose this bet," he
explained.
Raftery laughed homerically.
"What's on you' chest, Jack?" demanded one of his friends.
"I was just thinking," gurgled the saloonist, "what 'ud happen in case
this stiff gent, Iron Hair, was to run in 'bout this time."
"By Gar!" laughed Pete. "An' Iron Hair, he's just 'bout due."
At that moment Tillie came waddling in, laid down her bundle of meat
before Raftery and said--
"One bottle."
"What'd I tell you?" chuckled Raftery, handing over the liquor. "Boss
him get laid out, eh?" he said to Tillie.
But Tillie did not pause for conversation. She whipped the bottle under
her blanket and waddled out without a word.
"Well, I'm a son-of-a-gun!" proclaimed Raftery. "That ol' bum has got
'em well trained, anyhow."
Black Pete pulled his beard reflectively.
"Come to theenk," he mused aloud, "dere was wan rifle on those sledge. I
theenk mebbe I no go viseet thees ol' bum, he's camp, teel she's leetle
better acquaint' weeth moi."