"If I made a sound like a bottle of fire-water," grinned Torrance, "he'd beat the record."
"You're not to let them have a drop. Now remember, daddy."
"The nearest bar's too far away to waste it on an Indian, my dear. But there's methylated spirits somewhere in the stores—and you've a bottle or two of flavoring extract, haven't you? All it needs is a smell. . . . They're tackling the trestle, Tressa. Bully for you, Big Chief! You got Murphy beat a mile. Must have heard us talking about fire-water. Wonderful ears, them Indians have."
Adrian Conrad, ready for his evening visit, slipped his automatic in his pocket and hastened up the slope. He arrived as the squaw, with a nervous little run, covered the last few yards of the trestle and stamped moccasined feet on solid ground. The Indian, frightened as he plainly was, stalked stolidly on to her side. "Nothing the white man can do," he seemed to say, "will flurry me."
Torrance met them with extended hand.
"I hope my little conversation with my daughter didn't raise false hopes, Big Chief. I haven't a drop that's fit to swallow."
The Indians stared at the extended hand in silence.
"I don't know whether they shake hands in your language," explained Torrance, "but it's all the rage with us. I'm straining to show how pleased I am. Ah—how's all the little papooses? Has the hired girl kicked for another afternoon a week, and who's the latest married man to run away with another woman? That may not be wigwam gossip, but it's all we know in our set; it's all the small-talk I have."
The Indian solemnly accepted the preferred hand, studying it curiously as his own brown one shook to Torrance's welcome.
"Me spik English," he grunted.