“Huh,” grunted Jerry, “dat fool bird tell everyt'ing.”
“Any Indian following?”
Jerry held up two fingers.
“Two Indian run tree mile—find notting—go back.”
“Good! Where are our men?”
“Down Coulee Swampy Creek.”
“All right, Jerry. Any news at the fort last two or three days?”
“Beeg meetin' St. Laurent. Much half-breed. Some Indian too. Louis Riel mak beeg spik—beeg noise—blood! blood! blood! Much beeg fool.” Jerry's tone indicated the completeness of his contempt for the whole proceedings at St. Laurent.
“Something doing, eh, Jerry?”
“Bah!” grunted Jerry contemptuously.