CHAPTER IV.
LITTLE FOX—NA-SHE-ESCHUCK.
The Indian was one of the worst specimens of his race—a creature naturally brutal, who had been rendered more debased by an excessive use of fire-water. As he clung to the door-post and looked at them out of bleared and watery eyes, he was as disgusting a specimen of the genus homo as could be found between the two oceans.
“Let me talk to this critter,” said Cooney Joe. “I calculate I understand the natur’ of the unadulterated, unb’iled, unwashed and unclean drunken red, as well as any man in the great Nor’-west. I do, by the livin’ hokies. Hyar, you ’possum, speak up, and speak quick; what ar’ ye looking fur now?”
“Fire-water; poor Injun very dry,” replied this noble red-man. “Tire—much tire; walk durn good ways; mus’ hab fire-water.”
“You got to airn it fust, my noble red,” replied Joe. “Come, agitate yer jaw; tell us what ye want.”
“S’pose you give Little Fox fire-water, den talk. How can talk when no hab drink? Ugh!”
“That’s the heathen philosophy, gents all,” said Joe, with a look of supreme disgust. “No whisky, no news. Got sech a thing as a drain of sperrits handy, ’square?”
Mr. Wescott left the room, and returned shortly with a small flask of rum, from which he poured out a glass for the Indian, who drank it with avidity, smacked his lips, and held out the glass for more.
“Hold on,” said Joe, pushing back the extended hand. “Not ef I know it, Injin. That tongue of yours begins to double, anyhow, and I reckon you’ll hev to do some talking afore you git any more rum.”
“Pottawatomie big warrior, much brave,” replied the Indian, loftily, striking his clenched hand upon his broad breast. “Give Injun rum.”