He went to his work, laughing. That day he obtained some of the emetic from the medical stores of the station, and plugged it into three or four of the finest melons. Next morning he found that these melons were gone.
The following evening a tall Indian came slowly and solemnly to the station. His face had a troubled look, and there was an air of mystery about his gait and attitude. He stopped before one of the assistant missionaries, drew together his blanket, and said:
"Some one here no goot. You keep a conjurer in the camp. Indian kill conjurer. Conjurer ought die; him danger, him no goot."
The laborers gathered round the stately Indian. They all knew about the nauseating melons, and guessed why he had come. All laughed as they heard his solemn words. The ridicule incensed him.
"You one conjurer," he said, "he conjure melons. One moon, two moons, he shall die."
The laborers laughed again.
"Half moon, more moons, he shall suffer—half moon, more moons," that is, sooner or later.
The missionary's face grew serious. The tall Indian saw the change of expression.
"Braves sick." He spread out his blanket and folded it again like wings. "Braves double up so"—he bent over, opening and folding his blanket. "Braves conjured; melon conjured—white man conjure. Indian kill him."
There was a puzzled look on all faces.