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The Indian examined rapidly the condition of the little camp. "Dey look for somethin'," said he, making his hand revolve as though rummaging, and indicating the packs. "I t'ink dey see you in de woods," he concluded. "Dey go camp gettum boss. Boss he gone on river trail two t'ree hour." "You're right, Charley," replied Thorpe, who had been drawing his own conclusions. "One of them knows me.
"How are you, Charley?" greeted Thorpe reticently. "You gettum pine? Good!" replied Charley in the same tone. That was all; for strong men never talk freely of what is in their hearts. There is no need; they understand. Two months passed away. Winter set in. The camp was built and inhabited. Routine had established itself, and all was going well.
But, Charley, the men up the river must not know what I'm after." "They gettum pine," interjected the Indian like a flash. "Exactly," replied Thorpe, surprised afresh at the other's perspicacity. "Good!" ejaculated Injin Charley, and fell silent. With this, the longest conversation the two had attempted in their peculiar acquaintance, Thorpe was forced to be content.
"Le's tar-and-feather him." "White feathers!" "Where'll we gettum?" "Satkins's kosher shop on the Av'noo." "Where's yer tar?" This was a poser; Satkins was saved from a raid. A more practical expedient now evolved from the collective brain. "Duck'm in the fountain!" "Drown him in the fountain!" amended an enthusiast. Whooping with delight, the mob turned toward the gate.
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