"If you lay your hands on Storm's hair before I give you orders, my Devil shall tear your entrails out, very slowly, and wind them round a tree."
"But I want a drink! Give me a drink!"
The Indian had drawn an ax from the saddle and passaged his horse against the tailboard to get near enough for the blow.
"Seems you want a pill," answered the trader, pressing the muzzle of his rifle against the Indian's ribs.
Then Heap-of-dogs felt for the first time that hypnosis whereby the Crow's eyes compelled him to obey, to the strict letter of his orders. "All right," he muttered sulkily, drawing off.
At that moment another horseman came surging down upon them, shaking the turf with his rush, yelling exultant war whoops, as he charged between the Indian and the wagon. He pulled the horse on his haunches, with forefeet sliding forward.
"That you, Hiram Kant?" asked the trader, peering out of the darkness into the dusk, where he saw the American trapper, once known to the Indians as Hunt-the-girls, but now called No-man, friend of Rain and Storm.
"That's your little prairie chicken! Look a-here, Crow, I got a whole pack of beaver pelts in camp here. See? I've come for a fortnight's drunk. Me and my hoss has our tongues out. Quick, gimme a drink!"
For years had No-man boasted to his friends.
"Turn your pony loose, and come up into the wagon," answered the trader. "Meanwhile, here's a tot. Heap-of-dogs," he called out in English, "see this? Want to watch the white man getting drunk with me?"