Big Tim’s style of speech was in accordance with his half-caste nature—sometimes flowing in channels of slightly poetic imagery, like that of his Indian mother; at other times dropping into the very matter-of-fact style of his white sire.
“Leetil Tim vill be glad,” said Softswan.
“Ay, daddy will be pleased. By the way, I wonder what keeps him out so long? I half expected to find him here when I arrived. Indeed, I made sure it was him that tumbled yon Blackfoot off the cliff so smartly. You see, I didn’t know you were such a plucky little woman, my soft one, though I might have guessed it, seeing that you possess all the good qualities under the sun; but a man hardly expects his squaw to be great on the war-path, d’ye see?”
Softswan neither smiled nor looked pleased at the compliment intended in these words.
“Me loves not to draw bloods,” she said gravely, with a pensive look on the ground.
“Don’t let that disturb you, soft one,” said her husband, with a quiet laugh. “By the way he jumped after it I guess he has got no more harm than if you’d gin him an overdose o’ physic. But them reptiles bein’ in these parts makes me raither anxious about daddy. Did he say where he meant to hunt when he went off this morning?”
“Yes; Leetil Tim says hims go for hunt near Lipstock Hill.”
“Just so; Lopstick Hill,” returned Tim, correcting her with offhand gravity.
“But me hears a shote an’ a cry,” said the girl, with a suddenly anxious look.
“That was from one o’ the redskins, whose thigh I barked for sendin’ an arrow raither close to my head,” said the young man.