They stopped.
“The old buck is drunk,” said South-paw.
Shangowah’s beady eyes twinkled.
“Come to meet grandson, young Joe,” he said, in an explanatory manner. “Meet other friends. Heap glad. Celebrate some. Old Joe so old he no have time to celebrate much more, so he whoop it up now. ’Scuse-um me.”
The knife disappeared, and its place in Crowfoot’s hand was taken by a large, flat bottle containing a brownish amber liquor. Removing the cork, the redskin tipped the bottle and permitted two or three swallows to slide gurglingly down his throat.
“Oh, murder!” muttered Warwhoop. “It’s whisky. I smell it.”
“Mebbe you have little drink?” invited Crowfoot cordially, as he extended the bottle.
But Stover seized Clinker by the shoulder.
“Don’t you touch the stuff, Warwhoop,” he warned. “You know what it will do to you. We’ve got to play to-morrow.”
“Got to play a bunch of college kids,” said Clinker. “We could beat them if every man on the team was jagged.”