“White man, you steal um pig! Me heap bad Injun! You give um pig or you catch hell!”
“I’ll boot you——” began Patsy Duffy, but he had no chance to finish his threat. Ug was on him, clawing him like a demon; one brown hand gripped the red hair, the other flourished the long-bladed jackknife. Down they went, with Ug on top. A shrill cry like the note of a drunken whippoorwill caught in a buzz saw cut the night; his breath and his spirit deserted Patrick Duffy; he knew that cry; years and years ago it had struck cold fear to the hearts of white pioneers; it was the war whoop of the Flatfeet.
“You let me up!” sniveled Patrick Duffy. “I was just havin’ a little joke with you; honest I was, Ug.”
Even a braver man might well have been cowed by the ferocity of a Flatfoot on the warpath. Ug rose. He scowled at the prostrate Duffy.
“White man,” said Ug, “if I catch you near my tepee I’ll scalp you.”
But Ug knew from Patrick Duffy’s eyes that that eventuality would never occur.
Across the moonlit meadow a figure made its way; in shape it was not unlike a hot-water bag at high tide. Certain feathers in its hair cast grotesque shadows; it went forward with a conquering swagger, and this was no mean feat, considering that the figure held clasped tight in its arms a fat, squirming pig.
THE MAN WHO COULD IMITATE A BEE
IT was not until his twenty-second year that Hervey Deyo realized that he was taking life too seriously. Then the realization struck him sharply.