Not a little alarmed, but guessing that it would be useless—nay, most dangerous—to run before so many weapons and dogs, Congo retreated into the cabin.
“Is dem your folks?” he asked, holding the skin curtain aside that the old man might see out.
“Ess. My young man. Me great chief.”
“Yes, sah—dat you is! You next to de President ob United States! You good man, too! You no let ’em hurty me, eh?”
Joe shook hands with the chief and smote his breast and made all manner of pacific demonstrations while he said this.
“No un’stand.”
“Oh—debble you don’t! You grow dumb jes’ w’en it suits you, I t’ink. And dey looks like mighty ugly customers.”
So saying, he tumbled the dead deer back into the hole and drew the pile of skins over it, fearing that he might otherwise be suspected of being a robber, and be slain before any explanations could be made.
Partly by urging, and partly by force, he induced the “wise chief” to resume his seat, and then again tried to make him understand that he wanted his protection from the coming warriors.
“Do dey speak English?” he asked anxiously.