Five buffalo were credited to the captain—his arrows were in them. Five more were credited to the soldiers, who had been hampered by their unsaddled horses and by the big overcoats. York claimed three of the five—but nobody could believe York. The interpreters—Chaboneau and Lepage and Jessaume—had made their own kills, for their families.
“How many do you claim, Peter?” inquired the captain, with a smile.
“The old squaw who gave me the horse and bow, she owns what I kill,” answered Peter, carefully.
For there she was, cutting up a fat cow, from which one of Peter’s arrows protruded. Peter rode over to her.
“Mine,” he signed, proudly.
But she only grinned and shook her head, and pointed to his pony and his bow. Then she handed one of his arrows to him.
“Keep,” she said. “Keep bow. Make big hunter.”
Understanding, Peter rode away. There seemed to be plenty of meat, but a good bow and quiver was a prize. So he was willing to trade.