John had slept sound in his haystack, and heard nothing. “Well,” he said, after comforting his wife and Nancy, “you were better off in the room, anyway. I'd not blame him so, Liza. How was he going to help it?”
But Elizabeth was a woman, and just now saw one thing alone: if selling whiskey led to such things in this country, the man who sold it was much worse than any mere law-breaker. John Clallam, being now a long time married, made no argument. He was looking absently at the open drawer of a table. “That's queer,” he said, and picked up a tintype.
She had no curiosity for anything in that room, and he laid it in the drawer again, his thoughts being taken up with the next step of their journey, and what might be coming to them all.
During breakfast Jake was humble about the fright the ladies had received in his house, explaining how he thought he had acted for the best; at which Clallam and Mart said that in a rough country folks must look for rough doings, and get along as well as they can; but Elizabeth said nothing. The little raft took all but Nancy over the river to the wagon, where they set about dividing their belongings in loads that could be floated back, one at a time, and Jake returned to repair some of the disorder that remained from the night at the cabin. John and Mart poled the first cargo across, and while they were on the other side, Elizabeth looked out of the wagon, where she was working alone, and saw five Indian riders coming down the valley. The dust hung in the air they had rushed through, and they swung apart and closed again as she had seen before; so she looked for a rifle; but the firearms had gone over the Okanagon with the first load. She got down and stood at the front wheel of the wagon, confronting the riders when they pulled up their horses. One climbed unsteadily from his saddle and swayed towards her.
“Drink!” said he, half friendly, and held out a bottle.
Elizabeth shook her head.
“Drink,” he grunted again, pushing the bottle at her. “Piah-chuck! Skookurn!” He had a slugglish animal grin, and when she drew back, tipped the bottle into his mouth, and directly choked, so that his friends on their horses laughed loud as he stood coughing. “Heap good,” he remarked, looking at Elizabeth, who watched his eyes swim with the plot of the drink. “Where you come back?” he inquired, touching the wagon. “You cross Okanagon? Me cross you; cross horses; cross all. Heap cheap. What yes?”
The others nodded. “Heap cheap,” they said.
“We don't want you,” said Elizabeth.
“No cross? Maybe he going cross you? What yes?”