“The varmints in the mountains that you’ve got to git through are gettin’ more cantankerous than ever. I’ve trapped and hunted among ’em for nigh onto twenty year, and never had as much trouble as last winter. I’ve been told by the boys that come down the Missouri in the spring that there’s just as good huntin’ and trappin’ up that way, and the varmints don’t bother ’em half as much as out here; so I’ve made up my mind to strike out for that part of the world next fall when I go for the beaver runs agin.”
Jack Halloway was not slow to see that his warnings were thrown away on the young Shawanoe, and was discreet enough to take another line. He puffed his lips for some minutes, continually glancing at Deerfoot, who tried to act as if unconscious of this scrutiny, which at times became embarrassing. Suddenly the trapper started like a man who had forgotten something.
“That’s powerful qu’ar,” he said, “and I beg your pardon.”
While speaking he was groping hurriedly through an interior pocket of his coat, and now brought forth a flask and twisted the cork from it.
“I allers take a keg of it into the mountains, for there’s no thin’ like it when you find the weather a bit too cold, and it’s just as good when it’s too hot or you’ve got the blue devils and don’t feel right. After you.”
And he leaned over and reached the flask to Deerfoot.
CHAPTER VIII
GOOD SEED.
THE young Shawanoe smiled, shook his head and looked into the keen eyes before him.
“Deerfoot thanks his brother, but he never tasted of liquor and will die before he wets his lips with it.”