“He ’ain’t got much of a pack,” Jones commented, and at that moment “stables” sounded, and the men ran out to form and march to their grooming. Jack Long stood at the door and watched them file through the snow.
Very few enlisted men of the small command that had come in this morning from its campaign had ever seen General Crook. Jones, though not new to the frontier, had not been long in the army. He and Cumnor had enlisted in a happy-go-lucky manner together at Grant, in Arizona, when the General was elsewhere. Discipline was galling to his vagrant spirit, and after each pay-day he had generally slept off the effects in the guard-house, going there for other offences between-whiles; but he was not of the stuff that deserts; also, he was excellent tempered, and his captain liked him for the way in which he could shoot Indians. Jack Long liked him too; and getting always a harmless pleasure from the mistakes of his friends, sincerely trusted there might be more about the peddler. He was startled at hearing his name spoken in his ear.
“Nah! Johnny, how you get on?”
“Hello, Sarah! Kla-how-ya, six?” said Long, greeting in Chinook the squaw interpreter who had approached him so noiselessly. “Hy-as kloshe o-coke sun” (It is a beautiful day).
The interpreter laughed—she had a broad, sweet, coarse face, and laughed easily—and said in English, “You hear about E-egante?”
Long had heard nothing recently of this Pah-Ute chieftain.
“He heap bad,” continued Sarah, laughing broadly. “Come round ranch up here—”
“Anybody killed?” Long interrupted.
“No. All run away quick. Meester Dailey, he old man, he run all same young one. His old woman she run all same man. Get horse. Run away quick. Hu-hu!” and Sarah’s rich mockery sounded again. No tragedy had happened this time, and the squaw narrated her story greatly to the relish of Mr. Long. This veteran of trails and mines had seen too much of life’s bleakness not to cherish whatever of mirth his days might bring.