“Duke him heap sight glad see me, you—all of us,” Bright Wing muttered sagely. “Me, you, all of us very much glad see dog Duke. Him no dead—him here. Maybe master no dead—him here.”
“Shut up, Injin—shut up!” Farley cried sternly. “Don’t go to raisin’ no false hopes like that, in a feller’s gizzard. Ross Douglas is dead—me an’ you saw him dyin’. The redskins—led by that dang Bradford—found him an’ the dog together. No doubt they scalped an’ stripped the master an’ drug away the dog. But somebody got the houn’ away from the thievin’, murderin’ red devils—an’ here he is. I can read it all like readin’ a book. A heap better, in fact, fer I ain’t much on book learnin’. But ther’s one thing we want to do—find this scout that claims to own the dog, an’ make him tell where he got him.”
“Ugh!” And Bright Wing nodded assent.
“Come on, then,” Joe began excitedly, but stopped and stared stupidly around.
“Wher’s the purp?” he muttered.
“Duke him clean gone,” muttered the Wyandot. “Him gone that way”—pointing with his rifle. “Gone hunt new master.”
“Well, we’ll foller him,” Farley said decidedly. “An’ I’ll mighty soon tell this new master he hain’t got no right to the houn’, an’ that we’re goin’ to take the brute with us. Eh, Injin?”
“Ugh! All right—me, too.”
And again Bright Wing nodded vigorously.
“An’ if he gives me any of his sass,” Farley went on savagely, “I’ll whip the scoundrel within an inch of his worthless life—I will, by Lucindy! Nobody but you an’ me has any right to Duke now. An’ we’ll have him ’r know the reason why. Gol-fer-socks! How I wish Ross Douglas was alive an’ here. I’d be willin’ to let the danged Winnebagoes punch my nose an’ pierce my ears an’ pull out my hair an’ whiskers, to the’r heart’s content. Yes, I’d be willin’ to let ’em destroy the last remnants o’ my beauty, an pull out my lairipin’ tongue by the roots—I would, ’r my name ain’t Joseph Peregoy Farley!”