“You give him all him gold? The gold of my good boss, Marty?” he went on, as though striving for conviction that he had heard aright. “Sure? You mak him this? You not mak back to Placer wher’ all him white-woman live? You want only him Kid, same lak Usak want him Pri-loo all time? Only him Kid? Yes?”
Bill nodded with a dawning smile.
“You big man all much gold?” the Indian went on urgently. “You not mak want him gold of the good boss, Marty?”
Bill shook his head and his smile deepened.
“Guess I just want the—Kid,” he said.
The Indian moved. He laid his rifle aside as though it had suddenly become a hateful thing he desired to spurn. Then he reached out, thrusting a hand across the fire to grip that of the whiteman.
But no response was forthcoming. Bill remained motionless with his hands about his knees and his weapon thrusting. Usak waited a moment. Then his hand was sharply withdrawn. His quick intelligence was swift to realise the deliberate slight. But that which the crude savage in him had no power to do was to remain silent.
“You not shake by the hand?” he said doubtfully. “You say all ’em good thing by the Kid? It all mush good. Oh, yes. Yet you—” He broke off and a great light of passion suddenly leapt to his black eyes. “Tcha!” he cried. “What is it this? The tongue speak an’ him heart think mush. No, no!” he went on with growing ferocity. “The good boss, Marty, say heap plenty. Him tell ’em Indian man all time. Him whitemans no shake, then him not mean the thing him tongue say.”
“You’re dead wrong, Usak. Plumb wrong. That’s not the reason I don’t guess to grip your hand.”
Bill’s gaze was compelling. There was that in it which denied the other’s accusations in a fashion that even the mind of the savage could not fail to interpret.