“How—how!” called Cook again. “Are you deaf? What’s the matter with you? How!”
At this the chief seized the agent’s hand and began shaking it violently, viciously. It was his crippled arm and Cook was soon tired of this horseplay.
“That’ll do, stop it! Stop it, I say. Stop it or by the Lord I’ll smash your face,” he cried, seizing a heavy glass inkstand. He was about to strike his tormentor, when the red man dropped his hand.
Angry and short of breath the agent stepped to the door.
“Claude, come in here. Who is this man? What’s the matter with him?”
“That Howling Wolf,” replied the interpreter, with evident fear.
Cook was enlightened. He turned with a beaming smile. “Howling Wolf, how de do? I’m glad to see you.” And then to Claude: “You tell him my arm is sick and he mustn’t be so hearty with his greetings. Tell him I want to have a long talk with him right off—but I’ve got some papers to sign and I can’t do it now. Tell him to come to-morrow morning.”
They shook hands again, ceremoniously this time, and Howling Wolf withdrew in dignified reserve.
After he went away Cook informed himself thoroughly concerning the former agent’s treatment of Howling Wolf and was ready next morning for a conference.