CHAPTER VIII
INJUN TALKS
That night, in the bunk house, Bill Jordan was holding forth to a selectfew--Jim Walker, Charlie Bassett, Buck Higgins, and Shorty Palmer; allold friends and true, who could dispute and quarrel with one anotherwithout the serious results that would have attended such action on thepart of strangers.
"Talkin' 'bout Injuns," said Bill, "all I don't know 'bout 'em you c'dwrite 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 theydid."
"They has claws," persisted Shorty. "B'sides, no hummin'-bird ain'tgoin' 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 calleda figger o' speech. Same as 'independent as a hog on ice,' or 'dead asa door nail.' Ev'body knows them things ain't independent or dead. It'sjust a fancy way o' expressin' yourself. Can't you give a feller creditfor no 'magination?"
"Oh, you got 'magination all right," Shorty agreed. "You ain't in noways 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'rantinterruptions."
"Oh, go on an' talk, Bill," Jim Walker broke in. "Don't pertend thatShorty, 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' onthis here Injun question was somethin' that come up to-day," he said."John Big Moose bein' gone, you know, Mr. Sherwood writes me that Injunan' Whitey is t' go to school over to th' Forks. So on my way back fromdrivin' John t' th' Junction I stops at that there temple o' knowledge,as th' feller says, t' prepare th' mind o' Jennie Adams, what teachesthere, for th' comin' of this bunch of new scholards.
"Y' all know Jennie, old Hog Adams's daughter. Th' one with th' wart onher chin, that was engaged for matrimoney to Sid Gilman till one daythey 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 nostraighter'n you c'n talk you'd be a mighty poor risk for a insurancecomp'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'yes'pose she responds? That there ain't nothin' doin' with Injun. ThatWhitey, bein' a paleface, is entitled t' absorb all th' knowledge he c'nhold, but that Injun, bein' copper-colored, has got t' get along withother 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' thatJohn Big Moose, an' all he knows, an' him bein' allowed t' learn folksin some Eastern high school, an' that there Jennie Adams, what don'tknow 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 privateinstitootion, 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 makeme b'lieve that our Injun ain't as good as th' scholards at Jennie'semporium. Take that potato-faced brother Jim of hers, f'r instance,that's a coyote in 'pearance an' a rattlesnake at heart. Why, Injun'sa--a--prince of timber buck too compared t' him."
Bill did not know what a Prince of Timbuctoo was, and neither did theother punchers, but it sounded impressive, and served to vent hisfeelings against a law which affected his friend Injun--for as suchBill, and all the men in the bunk house, regarded the boy.
There may have been reasons why the Indian children were kept fromassociation 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 thegood in the white men of that day and that country, the reasons were notfounded on justice. Furthermore, they were conceived by lawmakers faraway. So the cowboys vented their feelings against what seemed to themrank injustice.
"But t' get back t' what I know 'bout Injuns," said Bill, after thediscussion had gone on for some time. "What d'ye s'pose our Injunthinks 'bout this here rule as says he ain't as good as that pie-facedJim Adams? He knows 'tain't right, same as we do, an' he thinks tohimself, 'Here's another thing I got t' put up with, an' if I rare upan' make a row 'bout it, I'll get th' wuss of it, as my people alwayshas. So what'll I do? I'll lay low, an' say nothin', an' I won't givethem white brothers no chance t' see that they've hurt my feelin's. I'llhide my hurt with my pride--one o' th' only things my white brothers hasleft 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'tnever really know. He's that savin' o' speech, like all Injuns."
"They're savin' enough o' speech here, 'mongst us folks," Bill Jordansaid. "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 theyknows 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 BigMoose was easy with white folks, an' look the way he could spilllangwidge. 'Most as good as we all."
The others silently agreed to this, thinking what a great advantage itwould be to John Big Moose in the Eastern college to talk as well asthey did.
"Our Injun boy could talk as well as John Big Moose, if he was usin' hisown 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--likeall other Injuns--for another thing."
Now you, who read this, must know by this time how well Bill Jordanliked to tell things and to prove them--if he could; and if he couldn'tmake the other fellow believe they were true, to think up something theother fellow couldn't answer; and if he couldn't do that, to go awaybefore the other could think of an answer. We all have known boys or menof this sort, and, being human, we don't like to have them assumingthat 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 thatmoment. And finally Charlie Bassett spoke.
"Bill," he said, "you're allus tellin' us somethin' 'bout somethin' whatwe don't know nothin' 'bout, with th' idee of gettin' us t' think you'rea 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 gott' 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'llbetcha 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 atthat time, to say nothing of apple pies, and Bill considered the matter.Moreover, his reputation was at stake, and that was a bigger thing tohim 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 herecontest."
"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 nextcondition is, that I don't agree t' make Injun talk direct on nosubject. F'r instance, if I asks him what he thinks 'bout bein' barredout o' that there school, I don't promise he'll tell me right out. Hemay 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 awaitthe coming of Injun. He was Whitey's guest at the ranch house thatnight, the night of the last day of Whitey's freedom from school. As itwas early, no doubt the boys would soon appear at the bunk house, tolisten to the sort of Arabian Nights' entertainment that was afforded bythe tales of the cowpunchers.
There was a momentary lull in the talk of the men, a lull in keepingwith the outer night, which was still and very dark. Presently a faintlight flickered across the southern windows of the bunk house, followedby a low rumble in the northeast.
"Storm in th' mountains," volunteered Jim.
Another moment of silence was followed by a brighter glare, as the skyin the south caught the reflection of the northern lightning. The formerrumble was succeeded by a more distinct series of crashes, as though thestorm 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 aglare that shamed the oil lamps, and, so fast that it almost might besaid to trip on the light, a crash that caused the men to turn andregard 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 almostconstant cannonading. The door opened, and Injun and Whitey forced theirway in, then threw their weight upon it in the effort to close itagainst 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, thenpush '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 soundedon the walls and roof and hissed through the bending branches of thecottonwoods.
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 ina steady tattoo on the roof. Then it passed, and a slighter coolness ofthe air, noticeable even in the closeness of the bunk house, was theonly token left of the storm's spurt of fury.
"Them storms is like some folks' money; comes hard and goes easy," saidShorty 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 youthat, 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'swager, with the object of it, Injun, sitting on a cracker box and gazingsolemnly at nothing in particular. The other men all looked expectantlyat Bill, who fidgeted a moment in his chair, then started, in what heintended for a light, conversational tone.
"Y' all ready for school to-morrow, Whitey?" Bill began, on hisroundabout 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 theworld. "Me glad," he said. "No like school."
This was rather a setback to Bill, who had expected to play on Injun'sfeeling of resentment. He rolled a cigarette and planned a new line ofattack. He knew that all the punchers would be glad to see him fail tomake Injun talk, and this didn't make Bill any more easy in his mind. Itmay have been pleasing to him to have worked up a reputation for knowingmore 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 hisfriends with glee when he failed to keep it up. He puffed hard on hiscigarette, 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' beunjust, '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," Whiteyexclaimed, "and how hard it is for one body of people to understand andsympathize with another, and about that sayin', 'Man's inhumanity to manmakes 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 folksan' Injuns, f'r instance. They ain't never rightly understood eachother, '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' onlyway they could get that way would be t' tell, outspoke, what they thinkso' each other. Now they's Injun, here. He's bin our friend for sometime, an' we bin his, but no one ain't never knowed his _real_ 'pinionof us, an' I think it'd be some help in adjustin' matters all round ifwe did."
Shielding his mouth with his hand, Shorty Palmer turned to Buck Higgins,and spoke in a hoarse whisper, that could be heard distinctly byeverybody. "Bill's like one o' them big express trains you see at th'Junction," Shorty hissed. "Takes him some time t' get started, but hegets 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 hisface. "Just among friends, Injun, d'ye think white folks as a classstacks up perty good?"
Injun stared at Bill. "Huh," he grunted. "Mebbe some good, mebbe somebad."
"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 areunderdogs 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 knewthat the Min-i-ko-wo-ju tribe, a branch of the Sioux or Dakotas, ofwhich 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, theMin-i-ko-wo-jus had come in for their share of the recently discoveredgold mine. He also knew that gratitude was a strong factor in the Indiancharacter.
But with all his boasted knowledge of his red brothers, what Bill didnot know was what Injun was thinking of, and that was somethingunconnected with his white brothers, or their justice or injustice tohis kind. It was something induced by the stillness of the night,following the storm. Thoughts of another night, when Injun was not in along, narrow bunk-house room, surrounded by booted cowboy friends, butin a tepee, dimly lighted by a central fire, around which squatted hisserious-faced, copper-hued kinsmen, smoking their long pipes, andtelling of their deeds and mishaps.
And when his mind was fixe
d on a subject, Injun--like other Indians--wasnot to be deflected by the thoughts of others. Bill might talk and talkof justice and injustice, or about cows or cartridges; Injun's mindwould stay put, and when he spoke, if it was two hours afterwards, itwould be of that night in the tepee.
But it was not that long before the silence that had fallen on the menwas broken. Bill was trying to think of another line of argument thatwould induce Injun to speak at length. Whitey, who knew Injun betterthan any one else, was looking at him, and realizing that he hadsomething on his mind. "Why don't you tell us a story, Injun?" Whiteyasked.
There was another long pause in the bunk house, and nothing could beheard save the ticking of the alarm clock that was Wong's specialproperty, on which he relied to give him his three a.m. call toget the punchers' breakfast ready by sunup. And then Injun spoke, he whorarely talked, save in monosyllables.
"When owl sleep; when thunder don't beat drum; when wind don't makenoise like big whistle; when trees stand straight up and don't bend;when everything quick is in hole; when Great Spirit he make sign andeverybody him sleep--then I hear my papa tell story about my mamma'sbrother; how he get 'um fingers worn off on end. My mamma's brother himgreat buck; call him 'buck' when him brave, before him made Chief.
"My mamma's brother him know white man scout, great friend my mamma'sbrother. Him talk Indian talk, just like Sioux. My mamma's brotherfriend him work for army; him watch when Indian go on war path. Him goodman. Him like Indian. Him know Indian no bad.
"My mamma's brother friend him say to my mamma's brother him like tobring his friend, White Chief, to Indian war dance. Him say White Chiefhe no tell what he see. My mamma's brother he say no: White Chief, withmuch ribbon on clothes, have crooked tongue. My mamma's brother friendhe say White Chief he no tell; give word before Great Spirit. My mamma'sbrother then he say come."
As the clipped sentences fell in soft gutturals from Injun's lips hisface remained expressionless, except for his eyes, which gazed back intothe dim, smoke-laden tepee and into the face of his father, a greatstory-teller of a race of great story-tellers; a survivor of the age-olddays when the deeds and legends of all men were made history by thevoice alone. And the men, their wager forgotten, and Whitey, too, leanedforward 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 ofhis hearers, or perhaps thought that they knew of them. Of how, beforethe great war dance, the chiefs of the tribe assembled in conclave intheir 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 hisbrave deeds, performed since the last war dance, and according to thesedeeds the chiefs decided whether the young man was worthy to become achief.
He needed no witnesses; his word was sufficient--for the Indian spokeonly the truth. And the descendant of a chief was held more worthy ofhonor than another, for brave blood flowed in his veins. But after eachyoung man was deemed worthy, he must prove his bravery at the dance.From a center pole hung a number of rawhide thongs. Through the breastor back of each young brave two slits were cut, and a stick or skewerwas passed through them, and a thong tied to each end of the skewer.Then the braves danced around the pole, leaning back and supportingtheir weight on the skewer, and when this weight tore the skewer fromthe flesh, the braves were deemed worthy to become chiefs. But shouldone give up, or faint from pain, he was deemed unworthy. And the torturesuffered by all was great--but the torture borne by those through whosebacks the skewers were passed was greater.
"White Chief and scout come to Indian war dance," Injun continued. "Atdance, when braves make talk and tell how they do things what make 'emchief, my mamma's brother he tell how him ride on prairie and see twowhite men. Him ride to them quick to show him friend. White men sayInjun bad. White men shoot at my mamma's brother. My mamma's brother himshoot at white men. Him kill white men. My mamma's brother him madechief, after him dance with stick through breast until stick break.
"Scout, my mamma's brother friend, and White Chief they go 'way. Mymamma's brother friend him say to White Chief, 'You see now why you notell. 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, alean, 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, gavehim 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' Cuton 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 theother.
This puncher, Henry Dorgan, was a man who was vaguely disliked on theranch, with nothing in particular on which to hang the cause of thefeeling. It was characteristic of him, for one thing, that he had nonickname. In a country where almost every one's name was familiarlyshortened into Hank, or Bill, or Jim, or was changed to Kid, or Red, orShorty, he remained Henry--not even Harry.
He threw off his hat and slicker, stamped to shake off the moisture thatclung to his boots, sat down, and prepared to make himself at home.
"Go ahead, Injun," said Jim Walker. "You was just at th' mostinterestin' part."
Injun rose, walked to a bucket in a corner, poured himself a dipper ofwater, and drank calmly. Then he returned, sat down and looked straightahead of him. There was a painful tension, of which Dorgan did not seemto 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 beganto 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'," Billsuggested.
"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 himselfoff.
After he was gone, there was another period of silence. It was sounusual for Injun to talk at all, and the effort to start him againhaving failed, it seemed now to occur to everybody that it probablywould 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, asthough they were gazing into his father's tepee fire, or into the redfaces 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 mymamma's brother, and tie him on pony, with him face looking at ponytail. My mamma's brother him lose much blood where stick break throughchest. Him almost died when get to Fort. White Chief put him in logcalaboose. Him stay there long, long time; mebbe so twenty, thirtymoons.
"Then him dig dirt in floor with hands, and cover up when they bring himbread and water--and he hide his hands all the time, fingers so muchbleed. Then when dark and no moon, him dig out last dirt, him come upoutside. 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 utterjudgment. "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'yes'pose that White Chief was?" he demanded. "Gee! We
sure butted intosome real Injun history."
"That's what I'm thinkin'," said Bill Jordan. "An' seein' as how Injun'suncle was old Rain-in-the-Face, an' seein' as how th' old man's fingerswas all stubbed off at th' ends, an' seein' as how Lonesome CharlieReynolds, th' greatest scout what ever lived, was a great friend of th'Injuns, an' spoke their langwidge, an' seein' as how he was scout forGeneral 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 wasalways hated by th' Sioux, an' by old Rain-in-the-Face in partic'ler--bygolly, boys!--"
Bill paused, as he and the men were impressed by the important point towhich his line of argument was leading, then went on excitedly: "We onlyhave t' reason deflectively t' put our fingers on th' button what causedth' doggonedest Injun fights this country ever knowed!"
"It begins, gee whiz! it begins--we all are all right, boys! It beginsin '75, with Injun's tribe. An' in '76, General Custer an' Captain TomCuster 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' bigSioux Chief, surrenders at that big fight in th' snow, when it wasfifty-two below, an' them Injuns was fightin' in their skins, with nocoverin' 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' wholerumpus, 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 talkshe says somethin'?"
There was no disputing this, and the men looked solemn as theyconsidered the series of great tragedies and the chain of circumstanceswhich had led up to them. Then, as the impression made on Bill Jordanbegan to fade, and thoughts of his own importance to take its place, heturned triumphantly to Jim Walker.
"Well, did I make Injun talk, an' do we get them peaches?" Billdemanded.
"_You_ make him talk!" Jim returned scornfully. "All you did was t' makehim shut up. Whitey made him talk."
"G'wan," Bill retorted. "Didn't them suggestions o' mine 'bout white menan' 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 tellme nothin' 'bout Injuns--"
But if this bunk house argument were followed to its end I should haveto write another book. Perhaps you can guess who paid for the peaches.