“I’ve been beat shootin’,” replied the trapper, in an undertone, “by that ’ar Injun.”
The old man looked over to where the strange Indian was standing erect and majestic, in all the pride of his plumage. There was no appearance of triumph or swagger about him, as he stood leaning on his rifle, in an attitude at once calm and dignified.
It was plain, from the way old Rube surveyed him, that he had seen him before, though not in that camp. After passing his eyes over him from head to foot, and there resting them a moment, a low murmur escaped his lips, which ended abruptly in the word “Coco.”
“A Coco, do ye think?” inquired the other, with an apparent interest.
“Are ’ee blind, Billee? Don’t ’ee see his moccasin?”
“Yes, you’re right, but I was in thar nation two years ago. I seed no such man as that.”
“He w’an’t there.”
“Whar, then?”
“Whur thur’s no great show o’ redskins. He may shoot well; he did oncest on a time: plumb centre.”
“You knew him, did ye?”