“White man’s fire-water heap good,” grunted the Indian. “Make Turtle Foot feel young again.”
“You may think so, but I don’t. Now let me go.”
“White boy no go yet. White boy drink with Turtle Foot. Feel like big brave. See!”
As the Indian concluded he pulled from under his blanket a large bottle still half full of rum. Holding tight to Dave with one hand, he held the bottle in the other and pulled the cork with his teeth. Then he shoved the liquor to the lad.
“Take drink—heap good fire-water,” he grunted. “Turtle Foot treat—Indian big heart.”
“Thank you, but I don’t wish to drink,” said Dave, as calmly as he could. He was alone with the red man, his uncle having gone inside the post, leaving him in care of the horses. Near at hand were half a dozen other Indians all whooping as if trying to split somebody’s ears.
“White boy must drink with Turtle Foot,” insisted the red man in an ugly manner.
“I won’t—and that’s an end on it!” cried Dave, his temper rising. “Now let me go I tell you!” And he gave the Indian a shove that sent him sprawling flat on his back. At once the other Indians stopped whooping and set up a roar at the expense of their fallen companion.
“Turtle Foot has lost his legs,” said one, in the Miami tongue. “He is as a pappoose in the hands of the white boy.”
“Turtle Foot cannot drink fire-water like we can,” said another. “And he cannot make the white boy drink. He had better return to the squaws and sell his fire-water for a bracelet,” and then another roar went up.