“No; let him talk. If he thinks we are Mexicans he will charge—then we will give him a little lead to digest.”
“Will the pale faces surrender?” cried the chief. “Will they yield?”
“Oh, yer jist go back ter yer daubed fools, and quit yer gab!” cried the guide.
The savage understood English slightly, and after some reflection, deciphered the command. He started back a pace or so, somewhat taken aback by finding he was taunting Americans. Then he resumed, swaggering:
“Come out from your hiding-place, women! Come like men into the plain and talk to Red-Knife. He is a brave—he has taken many scalps; the whites are dogs and are cowards.”
“I’ll put a stopper to his mouth!” declared Jack, bending and creeping through the wagons. Then, standing in full view before the chief, he cried, brandishing his rifle:
“Get back to your howling crew, you Comanche renegade dog! Get back, or I’ll send you in a hurry.”
He spoke in the chief’s own tongue, and he recognized Jack. Knowing his deadly precision with the rifle, well acquainted with his reckless daring and warlike proclivities, he prepared to retreat to his companions. But he could not resist the temptation of another taunt.
“Squaw from the bitter river” (Cimarron Fork), “dog from a dog’s country, coyote with a forked tongue—Red-Knife will dance with his warriors and his braves around your fire-stake. The squaws shall spit upon him, the pappooses will pierce his flesh with darts, and the coyotes will tear his flesh.”
He turned and fled, dodging and darting from side to side to avoid Jack’s bullet, which he knew would speed after him. It did.