“Yas, so they call me in your lingo, ’Rapahoe,” coolly returned Maxwell, as he gazed fixedly at the face of the savage. “I s’pose you know how you arn’t the name, don’t ye?”
“Yeh, me know. Big warrior, you. Kill heap Arapahoe. Won’t kill no more, dough. Git kill self, bumbye. How like dat, eh?” added the Indian, with a leer of ferocious joy upon his features, as he crouched over the captive pale-face.
“Don’t know, chief, ontel a’ter I’ve tried it a time or two. Reckon I’d like it fust rate, soon’s I git kinder used to it a bit. But you’re jokin’, ain’t ye, now?”
“Jokin’—wha’ dat?”
“Foolin’—makin’ b’lieve—sorter throwin’ dust in a feller’s eyes, like, ye know, so to speak. What fer do you want to kill me? I hain’t done nothin’ much, onless it is killin’ a few dozen ’Rapahoes, fer which you’d orter thank me, ’stead o’ holdin’ any grudge,” and the reckless old scout chuckled grimly.
“You kill Arapahoe—Arapahoes kill you. Kill Cagoula here, kill oder brave ober dere. You die fo’ dat.”
“What other? You ain’t goin’ to blame a feller fer what ain’t his fault, be ye? Ef I tuck a notion to shoot out here at a bunch o’ grass, an’ one o’ your durned copper-skins runs ag’inst the bullet, be I to blame? But I didn’t do it—you cain’t prove ’at I killed any other skunk ’cept this ’ere one.”
“Kin too, me tell. Kill ’noder brave down dere—in water—stick one wid knife. Den run ’way like de debble,” angrily added the chief.
“When—where was that?” asked Maxwell, a sudden hope springing up in his breast at the last words of the Indian.
“S’pose you tek good hoss—ride like debble—mek hair all wet on hoss. Dat long, mebbe,” tersely replied the Arapahoe.