He then appealed to the other Indians, but they all affirmed that they did not have a morsel of tobacco in their possession.
"Blamed ef I ever saw sech a pore crowd," grunted Old Rocks. "Wa-al, I'm goin' ter smoke."
He pretended to search round in his pockets, and, after a time, he drew forth a small bit of tobacco, uttering an exclamation of satisfaction.
"Dog my cats ef I ain't got a leetle mite o' smokin' terbacker left, an I 'lowed I wuz all out! I kin git erlong with this yere comfortable like."
He drew his knife, and began whittling at the tobacco, seeming to pay not the least attention to the Indians around him.
The Blackfeet were troubled, for they did not know what to make of the old fellow. Some of them put their heads together and spoke in their own language, but Rocks had sharp ears, and he understood them well enough to get the drift of what they said.
They were wondering if he had come there alone, or if he had companions near.
"Where come from?" Half Hand again asked.
"Over yon," the guide once more replied, with a sweep that was fully as wide as before.
"Ugh! Where others?"