“He said: ‘Ogima takes what he wants,’ and then he asked, ‘Kaw-gaygo esca-boba?’ That’s Indian for ‘Have you got nothing?’ Sounds foolish, but when an Indian asks it the way he did—that way, look out! He’s either looking for whiskey or trouble.”
“Well, he’s rapping at the door of the goat’s house for wool this time,” laughed Hammond. “I haven’t seen anything that looked like good whiskey in a blue moon, and, as for trouble, I can usually locate plenty of it without seeking it from a red-skin.”
“Speakin’ of whiskey,” Sandy’s eyes crinkled, “how’d you like a little nip right now?”
“A drink?”
“Sure. You’re lookin’ sort of all bowled over about something, and a little snort will brace you up. Come on in the shack.”
Inside the cabin Macdougal closed the door and hooked it on the inside. He lifted some loose flooring in the corner and brought up a black bottle. “You needn’t be afraid of it,” he assured Hammond as he poured him a draught in a metal cup. “This is sealed rye goods I got on a doctor’s prescription. But I got to keep it dark because there’s two things the Big Boss is death on any of us totin’ around camp; the one is six-guns and the other is whiskey. . . . Here’s how!”
Macdougal guzzled a generous cupful straight. Hammond perforce had to take his neat too.
The cook made to fill the two cups again.
“No, thanks,” declined Hammond. “I don’t indulge as a general thing, but I’ll admit that’s fairly smooth stuff.”
Sandy tossed off another stiff one. Then he sat down smacking his lips as though it agreed with him immensely. “You never met that copper-faced old rat before you came out here?” he asked presently.