"The password at your fort," he commanded with abruptness and vigor.
A villainous oath was the response, an epithet that would have been a vicious blow had the Nor'wester's arms been loose.
"The password!" Maskwa's voice kept even, but he stabbed the black man through with the needle points of his concentrated gaze.
No response! The Ojibway brought the pistol into view and leveled it with a precision more deadly than visual concentration.
"The password!" he repeated stonily for the third time.
"Shoot and be damned to you!" cried the Nor'wester, the swagger and braggadocio which in his breed is a substitute for courage breaking out. Swift as light came Maskwa's side-twist of the hand.
Bang! The pistol's scorch stung the Nor'wester's right ear.
Bang! Its red muzzle jet seared his left ear.
Bang! The round, fiendish mouth spat a white furrow through his black hair.
The awakened camp, thinking of an attack, sat up and grasped weapons, then put them furtively back, half ashamed of their mistake, and gazed wonderingly at the strange tableau.