“Well,” said Hugh, “we’ll know pretty quick, for there’s a lot of them starting across the river, or I miss my guess.”
Sure enough, twenty-five or thirty men came out of the lodges and, jumping on their horses, galloped down to the fording place.
The road up the Duck Lake Hill starts not far above where the ford comes out of the river, so that Hugh and his party had to keep on down the stream until they had almost reached the ford, and by that time the hurrying crowd of Indians had ridden up on the bank and presently surrounded them and stopped the team.
Most of the men were young, but among them were a few of middle age, and none were old men or very young boys.
They were quite noisy, some of them yelping in pure fun and high spirits, others shouting aloud in tones that seemed to show anger.
When they got about the wagon, Hugh pulled up his team and sat there looking and listening, trying to make out what they wanted.
Jack could understand a few words of what was being said, but in the confusion could not catch its drift, and looked inquiringly at Joe, who he thought wore a very solemn face.
During the colloquy that followed, he was in the dark as to what the trouble was, but it was afterwards explained to him.
After the noise made by the Indians had somewhat subsided, one of the men pushed his horse to the front, and coming close to Hugh, said to him, “Where is the whiskey?”
Hugh replied, “What whiskey?”