“You’d mount me ez a spider mounts a fly, I ’spose?” said the hunter, coolly. “My young fr’end, never let yer angry passhins git the best ov you, and by all means never hop on a man untel you ar’ tollable sartin you kin lick him. I don’t want to put you in mind ov the fac’ thet I hev just saved yer life—I’d do that ag’in, any way—but, what was you going ter do ef you hed killed Whirlwind?”
“There would have been one less scoundrel on the face of the earth.”
“Sartin; I agree; but, look yer, my lad; kin we two lick nineteen Blackfeet?”
“I don’t suppose we could.”
“No, sirree! I’ve fou’t Injuns ever sence I was knee high ter a grasshopper, and I want ter hev it sot down thet an Injun in his own kentry and well fixed, is an or’nary and orkard cuss to manige; he is, by thunder! I’ve hern tell ov one man sending ten or twelve to grass, but he can’t do it every day, bet yer life.”
“But they could not get at us here—”
“I ’spose not. An Injun can’t climb ez well ez the next man, I ’spose. Now did ye ever hear tell ov Old Pegs?”
The young man started and looked at him keenly.
“Old Pegs the guide—Old Pegs the hunter, Old Pegs the Indian terror? I should think so.”
“Them’s my handles, stranger; I’m Old Pegs.”