“Wow, that’s the limit!” groaned Tom. “If your Injun pal, Little Fox, ever asks me in for supper, I’m going to have a pressing engagement elsewhere.”
“About twenty miles elsewhere,” added Ben.
“You see,” explained Bill, “an Injun holds it a pizen insult, if you turn down food that’s offered. An’ the same goes, if he gives out an invite to stay fer the night. You jest can’t say no, er he’ll be yer mortal foe fer life.”
“Looks like you’re in for it, Bill,” grinned Tom. “We’ll see you in the morning.”
“Hope you have a comfortable night,” gibed Ben, “and also a tasty breakfast.”
“But to git ser’ous, boys,” went on the frontiersman, his face very sober, “I hate to have you hikin’ back to the fort alone, now that dark is here.”
“Are you spoofing, Bill?”
“Not a bit of it. Yer path lays right past the Mud Turtle.”
“What of it?”
“Yer li’ble to bump into that scoundrel of a Pat Fagan. He hangs ’round ther a hull lot.”