“He’s dead, by the rock of Gibraltar!” roared the bear’s master. “Them mean cusses hev killed him, but whar’s the blood?”
“He has died in a different way,” replied Dave. “Look at his mouth.”
Old Pegs saw at a glance how his bear had died. He had killed too many wolves with strychnine, to have any doubt of the cause of his death, and his anger broke out afresh.
“Thar’s going to be war when that Velveteens and Old Pegs come together ag’in,” said the old man in an unusually quiet tone, which he only used in moments of intense passion. “I’ll raise his ha’r, or my name ain’t what it is. Come along; it is only a half day’s walk ter the spring, and they ar’ thar afore now. They’ll be up hyar by noon, the hull b’iling, and we’ve got ter be ready.”
As they turned to move away there was a movement in the bushes close to them, and a savage face looked out at them, his eyes burning with intense passion. It was Whirlwind, the Blackfoot chief. He held in his hand a long bow and seemed about to fit an arrow to the string, but upon second thought replaced the bow and called to Old Pegs by name.
“Let Short Legs turn back and have a talk with a great chief,” he cried.
“Durn my hide,” said Old Pegs. “Whar did he come from? Shill we humor him, Dave? He seems ter be alone.”
“It may benefit us much if we can make friends with him,” replied Dave.
The two turned back hastily, and Whirlwind came quietly out of his place of concealment and met them. He seemed to have no fear of them, strongly armed as they were, and advanced boldly to meet them.
“Whirlwind is welcome,” said Old Pegs in the Indian tongue. “Why is he here?”