Again that queer chuckle, for the Indian had slunk back, his black eyes fastened upon the ranger's face, with a sort of dazed expression.
It appeared as though Pandy was known to him by report, if not personally.
"Ugh! Sharp shot! Heavy knife! Big chief! Ugh!"
"I reckon," returned the old ranger dryly.
Half a moment passed, during which neither of them spoke.
Pandy's grim features had resumed their usual aspect, and there was actually a scowl upon his face as he gazed steadily at the redskin.
"Chief," said he at length, "fur I reckon I kin b'lieve ye that fur an' say ye air a chief, I'm going ter ax ye sum questions, an' I want square answers to every wun o' them. Fust o' all, what'd ye shoot at me fur?" and Pandy glanced at his shoulder, where a little tear told where the bullet had gone.
"Me see through bushes; tink was Blackfoot squaw. Ugh!"
"Yas, I reckon. Werry plausible, az ther feller sez, but two thin. Wal, we'll let that pass, seein' az no harm war done. I forgive ye, chief. Receive a benediction, my red brother. Let that lie pass ter yer credit. Now, my painted scorpion, look me full in the eye. What hez Sitting Bull done wid my pard?"
This was uttered in a slow, but emphatic tone.