“Shall I call to him?”
“Only bring him up to be took prisoner too. Here, let’s make the best of it,” cried Morgan, jauntily. “How are you, gentlemen?—strangers in these parts, arn’t you?”
The only man to take any notice of this easy-going address was the Indian I imagined to be the chief, and he uttered a grunt.
“Ah, I thought so. Nice country isn’t it, only we’ve got some ugly customers here.—Sure they can’t understand, Master George?”
“I feel nearly sure.”
“So do I, lad.—Ugly customers, snakes—see?—snakes.”
He took the pole quickly from my hand, and at the same moment I saw, as it were, a shock run through the group of Indians, each man taking tightly hold of the tomahawk he carried.
But Morgan did not notice it, and thrusting the end of the pole under the snake, he raised it up.
“See?” he cried. “We just killed it—no, we didn’t, for it isn’t quite dead.”
The Indians looked at him and then at the snake, but in the most stolid way, and I stood wondering what was to come next.