"_Injuns_, by God!" roared Brigham, forgetting that we had left the
Indian country two days behind us. "Lie down in the waggon while I
drive." And drive he did, till out of gunshot, and then putting his face
out, turned around, and gave in full desperate cry the taunting war-whoop
of the Cheyennes. It was a beautiful sight that of Brigham's broad red
face wild with rage--and his great gold earrings and Mexican
sombrero--turning round the waggon at us in defiance like Marmion!
But when he realised that _we_ had fired at him, just as a pack of d---d
Apaches might have done, for fun, to stop the waggon, his expression
became one of utter bewilderment. As I came up I thought there might be
a shindy.
"Brigham," I said in Spanish, "_es la mano o el navajo_?" [Is it to be
hand, or knife?]
Brigham was proud of his Spanish; it was his elegant accomplishment, and
this was a good scene. Grasping my hand cordially, he said, "_La mano_."
Like a true frontiersman, he felt in a minute the _grandeur_ of the joke.
There was, if I may so vulgarly express myself, an _Indian-uity_ in it
which appealed to his deepest feelings. There was a silence for several
minutes, which he broke by exclaiming--
"I've driven waggons now this twelve years on the frontier, but I never
heard before of tryin' to stop the waggon by shootin' at the driver."