He pointed. Just above the dam an Indian sat on a pinto pony, gazing stolidly at the wreck. His hair streaked with gray, was braided, and fell below his shoulders on either side. His costume was that of ordinary civilization, save for a pair of new, tight moccasins. Having apparently all the time there was, he had been a frequent spectator of operations, squatting by the hour watching the work. Occasionally his interest had been rewarded by a meal or a plug of tobacco. These things he had accepted without comment and without thanks. His taciturnity and gravity seemed primeval.
"Huh! That old beat!" said Farwell contemptuously. "Every Indian can't trail. However, we can't, that's sure. Maybe he can make a bluff at it. Go and get him."
Keeler brought up old Simon, and Farwell endeavoured to explain what was wanted in language which he considered suited to the comprehension of a representative of the original North American race. He had a smattering of Chinook,[1] and for the rest he depended on gestures and a loud voice, having the idea that every man can understand English if it be spoken loudly enough.
"Simon," said he, "last night bad man come and mamook raise heap hell. Him blow up dam. You savvy 'dam,' hey?"
"Ah-ha!" Simon grunted proudly. "Me kumtuks. Me kumtuks hell. Me kumtuks dam. Dam good, dam bad; godam——"
"No, no!" rasped Farwell. "Halo cuss word—no bad word—no. D-a-m, 'dam.' Oh, Lord, the alphabet's wasted on him, of course. What's Siwash for dam, Keeler?"
"Search me," said Keeler; "but 'pence' is Chinook for fence, and 'chuck' means water. Try him with that." And Farwell tried again.
"Now, see, Simon! Last night hiyu cultus man come. Bring dynamite—hiyu skookum powder. Put um in dam—in chuck pence. Set um off. Mamook poo!—all same shoot. Bang! Whoosh! Up she go!" He waved his hand at the wreck. "You kumtuks that?"
Simon nodded, understanding.
"Mamook bang," said he; "mamook bust!"