"White man beeg liar—all. Pete Mateese, she Injun—breed. White man no tell Injun 'bout gol'. Me'be so white man steal Injun gol'."
With Irish impetuosity, O'Brien leaped forward.
"Take thot back, ye rid shpalpeen!" he cried, shaking a huge fist under the Indian's nose. "Av ye say wan more wor-rd ag'in' th' b'y, Oi'll choke th' gizzard out av ye befoor ye say ut!"
Waseche Bill held up a restraining hand.
"Take it easy, O'Brien, don't le's nobody huht anybody. Le's get the straight of this heah. Primary an' fo'most, we-all want to find out if Pete Mateese pulled out on Carlson, oah, did he aim to go back." At the mention of Carlson's name the Indian turned quickly toward Waseche.
"Y'u know Carlson?" he asked. Waseche Bill nodded.
"Yeh, I did know him."
"Wher' Carlson?"
"Dead." As Waseche pronounced the word the Indian shook his head sadly.