"No kumtuks," said the other, signifying in the Chinook jargon that he did not understand, and they backed toward the door.
Bud was unable to tell what tribe they belonged to, but felt that, from their use of the Chinook jargon, that they were renegades from tribes across the border, although the border tribes of British Columbia spoke the jargon.
"Wait a moment. Let us talk, friends," said Bud in the same strange tongue, which he could speak.
He thought he might get them into conversation and find out why he was imprisoned, but one of them shook his head and said coldly, "No talk. Not friends."
As they opened the door, Bud spat at them, "Mahkh mokst, hum opoots!"
One Indian started to lift his gun, but the other spoke gutturally and shoved him outside. They barred the door quickly behind them.
"Well," observed Bud sadly, "tellin' that pair of skunks to get out quick didn't get me anythin' that yuh could see with yore naked eye. As far as knowin' anythin', I'm right where I left off."
He examined the kettle of stew, but his stomach rebelled. The kettle was none too clean, and its contents far from appetizing. Bud was still nauseated from the blow on his head, and he wanted a drink of water.
"Skunks they were," he reflected, "but I should have kept the information away from them long enough to beg a drink of water. Now, why am I a prisoner?"
But there was no lead for him to work on. He had always been friendly to the Indians. Why had Monk Magee given him the doped whisky, and why did Marie Beaudet figure in his troubles, he wondered.