The Indian began to groan.
"Say," said Buckie, "Charging Buffalo, alias Pedro la Mancha, just tell the girl you're both my prisoners."
"The silly ass," I translated, "thinks I'm Pedro, and so we're prisoners. Isn't it a lark!"
"She's a nice little piece," added Buckie. "Tell her to cut up the cow and get supper."
So I sent Rain to get supper, and she went, head bent, feet dragging, for she was terrified at being a prisoner.
"Pedro," the soldier was unsaddling his horse, "you may play at Indians, but I guess you've been raised for a lord, or some sort of pet. Say you won't run, and your word is good enough."
Having nothing to run from, and nowhere to run to, I readily gave parole. Wild horses could not have dragged me from that camp with real beef in sight.
"As to this infernal Tail-Feathers," Constable Buckie looked round. "Hello! Look out!"
The scout-interpreter felt so much better now that he was able to sit up with his rifle and take a pot-shot at my back. I had just time to jump on his stomach before the thing went off.
Rookie he was, and not over-wise at that, but Constable Buckie felt that for a scout-interpreter this Indian was too impulsive. He therefore persuaded Tail-Feathers to lie down and take a nap with contusions, then put the man under what he called close arrest, tied up like a brown paper parcel, for delivery to the sergeant-in-charge at Slide-out.