“You must have made a lucky strike of some sort, chief,” said Dick.
“Oh, old Joe he manage to scrape along. He play little poke’ now and then. He get together some mon’ ’bout time big fight come off in Reno. Never see big fight like that, so he think he take it in. He go to Reno. Ugh! Everybody there. Town plumb full, swelled up, run over; but old Joe he got ’long—he sleep anywhere, he eat anyhow.”
“Well, what do you think of the old sport,” cried Tucker delightedly, “taking in a big prize fight? Did you see it, Crowfoot?”
The aged Indian gave the little chap a look of pained reproof.
“You bet-um your boots,” he grunted. “Old Joe he buy ring-side seat. He meet up with heap much fight men before scrap come off. He look-um John Jack over; he look-um Jim Jeff over. He like-um Jim Jeff, but when he hear how Jim go by, when he see John Jack in prime, he think mebbe Jim no come back good enough to whip Jack. He have little talk with Jim Cob, too. He hold small powwow with John Sul.”
“Waugh!” laughed Buckhart. “You certainly got in with high society at Reno.”
“Jim Cob,” continued Crowfoot, “he tell old Joe, Jim Jeff sure to win. Him fine feller that Jim Cob, but he make big mistake. Old Joe he listen heap much, say nothing, think all the time. When he see big odds on Jim Jeff he think mebbe it is good chance to make fancy clean-up, so he bet last dollar on John Jack. He win fourteen hundred plunk, United States cash, clean dough.”
“Well, what do you know about that!” gasped Gregory McGregor, in profound admiration. “But what would you have done if you had lost every cent you had in the world, chief?”
Old Crowfoot looked at him wisely.
“If so,” he replied, “it not be first time Shangowah get skinned to him teeth. He take chance more than once. He go busted more than once. He always find some way to get on feet again.”