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Meanwhile Joe had rubbed and kicked himself into a state of animation, exclaiming that he felt as if he wos walkin' on a thousand needles and pins, and in a few minutes they were ready to accompany their overjoyed deliverer back to the Peigan camp. Crusoe testified his delight in various elephantine gambols round the persons of his old friends, who were not slow to acknowledge his services.
And, curiously enough, by far his most anxious time had been the safe return from his raid on Louis Creal's store, with his prisoners. Peigan Charley had been unfailing. The Indian had reached the camp and found it secure. There had been no attack in his absence.
We do not wish to quarrel, but if they are not delivered up at once the Pale-faces and the Peigans will not be friends." Upon this the Indian chief again stood forward and said, "The Peigans are not double-tongued. They have not seen Pale-faces till to-day. They can say no more." Without moving hand or foot, Cameron then said in a firm tone, "The first Peigan that moves shall die!
But it took Peigan Charley to sum up the situation, and the feeling of, at least, the leaders of the outfit. "Fool neche!" he exclaimed, with a world of contemptuous regard flung in the direction whence came the sound. "Shoot lak devil. Much shoot. Plenty. Oh, yes."
"Him all big fool pack neche. No good. Plenty 'fraid. Plenty eat. Oh, yes, plenty eat. One, two." Again he told off his fingers. "Good neche. Fight plenty. Oh, yes. Peigan Charley." He held up one finger. "Heap good feller," he commented solemnly. "Big Chief, boss. Big Chief, Bill. Two." Again the inevitable fingers. "Shoot plenty much. No good. Five hundred Bell River devils. Mush gun. Shoot bad.
His philosophic temperament seemed to render him impervious to the attacking hordes of mosquitoes. Beyond the hum of the flying pestilence the place was soundless. Near by the Indians were slumbering restfully. It is the nature of the laboring Indian to slumber at every opportunity slumber or eat. Peigan Charley was different from these others of his race.
Peigan Charley, the contemptuous, blocked up the doorway ready at a moment's notice to carry out any orders his "boss" might choose to give him, and living in the hopes that such orders, when they came, might at least demand violence towards these "damn neches" who had dared to invade the camp. But his hopes were destined to remain unfulfilled.
Peigan Charley's bovine stare changed swiftly as the white chief whom he regarded above all men gave his decision. Its stolidity had given way to incredulity, and Bill found in it a source of amusement. Suddenly Charley thrust up one hand. The long, tawny fingers were parted, and he counted off each one. "One, two, tree, four," he enumerated, bending each finger in turn.
A moment later Peigan Charley was giving the results of his expedition in the language of his boss, of which he considered himself a perfect master. "Charley, him find him," he said with deep satisfaction. "Him mak' plenty trail. Much climb. Much ev'rything. So." He looked like a disreputable image carved in mahogany, and arrayed in the sittings of a rag-picker's store.
But in the meantime, if a Peigan moves from the spot where he sits, or lifts a bow, my young men shall fire, and the Peigans know that the rifle of the Pale-face always kills." Without waiting for an answer, Dick immediately said, "Seek 'em out, pup," and Crusoe bounded away.
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