“Leave the Injun?”
“Exactly. Leave him so he’ll stay just where you leave him.”
“Ye mean for me to kill him?” hoarsely asked Thatch.
“Well, I’m quarter-blood, but I don’t like Injuns,” murmured Polcher.
“But that would bring a war-party ag’in us,” the old man protested.
“What’s that to you, you old coward? You wouldn’t have to do any fighting. You’re afraid,” growled Polcher.
“’Fraid of a Injun! Huh! Like ——!” wrathfully retorted Thatch.
“Now listen to me. If you blab a word, you’ll never blab another. I’ve changed my mind about the furs. I don’t want them. Bring a scalp and get your jug.”
“I ain’t got a tender stomach when it comes to Injuns. But this cuss is a friendly one. Lives near here. It would be like killin’ a neighbour. I—I can’t do it,” cried Thatch, his old face now running sweat.
“Then I’ve made a mistake and talked to the wrong man. It’s your hair or the Injun’s before midnight.”