“His pipe? Isn’t that a peace pipe? I thought Indians always smoked the pipe of peace with their friends.”
Long Gun must have had good ears, for he looked up at Nat’s words. Then he smiled grimly.
“No peace pipe. Corn-cob pipe—plenty bad, too,” he said. “Yo’ got better one?”
“No, Long Gun, they don’t use pipes,” said Tanker Ike with a smile.
“Say, he understands English,” remarked Sam.
“That’s what,” put in Bony.
“Pity he wouldn’t,” remarked Ike. “He’s been guiding hunting parties of white men for the last ten years.”
Early the next morning Tanker Ike started back, taking a longer trail, that would not make it necessary for him to cross the desert. On the advice of Long Gun the boys and Mexican Pete started off up into the mountains, where they were to make a camp, and begin to hunt.
“Here good place,” remarked Long Gun that afternoon, as they came to a level clearing on the shoulder of the mountain. “Plenty much mule deer and sheep here. Like um jack-rabbits, or um bear? Plenty git here. We camp.”