“Heen careechi? Heen careechi?” (Who gets that?) followed by a grateful—
“O nareemo nachee!” (Many thanks!) from the lucky recipient.
Only one old man asked for rum. But Castizo shook his head and replied in Spanish, which this Indian understood—
“Never more, Goonok, never again. When last I brought rum to the camp, thinking you would but taste and put it away, hé aqui! you and your people drank all. All at once! You quarrelled and fought. There was much bloodshed, Goonok. You know the green grave at the corner of the wood yonder. There your brave son sleeps. He was killed that night, Goonok, by his own cousin’s hand. Never more, Goonok, never again.”
“Maté yerba?”
“Yes, plenty of that. As much maté as will last the camp all the livelong winter.”
“Hé!” cried the old man. “Is, then, our white cacique to stay with us through the winter?”
“Yes.”
“And his young men and all his followers?”
“All, Goonok, every one of us.”