"No steal hosses!" growled the Indian. "Give back hosses."
"They kin hev their own hosses. I don't want 'em," interposed Matt. "They ain't fit for scarecrows."
"Bring 'em out, Phil," said Kit. "They shall hev their own. We won't wrong an Injun, no how."
I led out the bony racks which the Indians had ridden, and delivered them to their owners.
"Now you kin leave," added Kit.
"Want more hosses," said the Indian who spoke this pigeon English, and which the other appeared not to be able to do, and only grunted and howled his anger and indignation.
"You won't git no more hosses here."
"Want corn, want meat, want whiskey."
"Not a corn, not a meat, not a whiskey," replied Kit, decidedly. "Ef you'd come as a hungry man, we mought hev fed you."
"Big Injun come, burn house, kill white man—no give hoss and whiskey."