Carney laughed, and lowering his gun, said: "Certainly not, boy—just a precaution, that's all. Where are you going?"
"I'm goin' to de Fort, me," the French halfbreed replied. "De Stoney nichies an' de lumberjacks is raise hell; by gar! dere's fine row; dey s'oot de Sergeant, Jerry Platt."
"Where?"
"Jus' by Yellowstone Creek, De Stonies pitch dere tepees dere."
"Where's the Sergeant?"
"I don't know me. He get de bullet in de shoulder, but he swear by le bon Dieu dat he'll get hes man, an' mak' de Injun go back to hees reserve. He's hell of brave mans, dat Jerry."
"All right, boy," Carney said; "you ride on to the Fort and tell the Superintendent that Bulldog Carney——"
"Sacre! Bulldog Carney?" The poor breed gasped the words much as if the Devil had clapped him on a shoulder.
"Yes; tell him that Bulldog Carney has gone to help Jerry Platt put the fear of God into those drunken bums. Now pull out."
The breed, who had clung to the bridle rein, mounted his cayuse, crying, as he clattered away: "May de Holy Mudder give you de help, Bulldog, dat's me, Ba'tiste, wish dat."