“I reckon yer wrong, Jan,” said the trapper. “They do say thet snakes ain’t very bad eatin’ when a chap is hard druv’. I don’t say I want to try ’em, but ef I c’u’d ’a’ got snakes the time I cum nigh to starvin’ up yer in the Black Hills, durn my hide ef I wouldn’t hev eat snakes or any thing else. I kem of a queer race. I ken eat any thing, and lick my weight in wildcats. I’m death on grizzlys. I ken wipe out an Injun as fur as I ken see him, and I calculate thet’s a good ways.”
“You talks a goot deal mit yer mout,” said Jan. “Put aff a man says to me dat snakes unt frogs is goot to eat, den I dinks he ish no more ash von vool. Aff ever I get vere I can no more get nottings to eat, so help me gracious ash I vill not eat snakes unt vrogs, aff day vash to come to me in hundreds unt t’ousands, ready cooked, unt beg me on dere knees to eat dem.”
“Did you ever see a snake on his knees, Jan?” said Ben.
“Yaw! Ven you poke dem mit a stick, dey gits up on dere tails. Dat’s de vay dey vould do ven dey vash ask me to eat dem. Unt I vash say, No, py tam!”
The Frenchman said nothing, but stooped to stir some soup in an iron pan placed on the coals, glancing up at the Dutchman with a queer smile as he did so. The blood of the Teuton was up, and he dropped off into low mutterings, like distant thunder, until a fresh grievance caused him to break out again. He found this grievance in Ben Miffins’ manner of smoking.
“Dere,” he said, “shpose you look at dat, eh? Ven a man ash ought to know petter, unt ve know ash he knows petter, shmokes hish pipe drue hish nose, like dat, he ish von tam vool. See him. Puff! puff! puff! like a shteampoat mit a vire in her pelly. Now I dells you dat ish not the vay to shmoke.”
“It’s my way,” said Ben. “Look yer, Dutchy, ef ye don’t like my way of smokin’, does ye know what ye ken do? Ye ken take the back track to the forts.”
“Vy don’t you shmoke like a Christian den?” grunted Jan.
“’Cause I don’t want to. Never told ye how I learned to smoke this yer way, did I? No? I’ll tell ye then. When I was quite a young man I was taken by the Crows. Durn ’em ef they didn’t keep me among ’em more then three years. Made me a chief, and what not. Wal, they all smoke this yer way, and I took it up. Don’t rile me up, Dutchy. I’m the Big Buffalo of the Crow nation. Rile me, and I light on ye pooty heavy. Smooth me down and I’m ile; but slick me the wrong way and I’m a p’ison critter. Look out fer me when I flop my wings and crow.”
“Look at the hills,” said Jan, prudently changing the course of the conversation. “Vat you dinks ven I dells you I’ve seen hills all made up mit ice, unt dey so pig ash dese hills, eh?”