The greeting was cordial, but still somewhat constrained between the young couple, for the old folks were looking on, and they had not yet progressed so far along love's path as to be unreserved. It was a secret—so they imagined—known only to each other.
Fred bent an inquiring look upon the dusky figure crouching near the corner of the fireplace, where yet glowed a small fire; the remnant of that necessary to prepare the evening meal. It was indeed "Bob-tailed Horse," who had consented to play such a vile part.
And he seemed preëminently fitted for such a duty, too. Low, squat-built, he was clothed in a dirty, greasy and tattered pair of trowsers and a calico shirt, with bare feet and head. His face was swollen and bloated with strong drink: his eyes bleared and bloodshot, from the same cause. On the whole, a more disgusting specimen of the "noble Lo!" could scarcely be found, even among his own people; and that is saying a good deal.
"How?" exclaimed Fred, as he stood before the savage, outstretching a hand.
The greeting was returned, and Bob-tail arose to clasp the hand. Then Fred, as if accidentally, worked around until he was between the Indian and his late position.
"Has 'Bob-tailed Horse' saw Petit Corbeau lately?" asked Wilson.
"No—long time—so many suns," and he raised both hands. "Little Crow call Injun drunk fool," and a venomous glitter filled the bleared eyes of the sot.
"You don't tell me so? Why he must have been drunk to have said that. You don't like fire-water, do you?"
"No—no like—heap bad! Ugh!" brazenly lied the rascal.
"Does my brother know where One Eye is?" suddenly asked Fred.