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S'pose some time me mamook sick, me feel all same oleman no more grub stop, no more smokin' stop mebbyso all rancher potlatch grub, potlatch smokin', send doctin', send med'cin'? You kumtuks?" He formulated this general scheme of pension and old-age insurance gravely.
Contrary to the custom of white men, the old Indian did so from the off side. Farwell swore suddenly. "What?" Keeler asked. "Hey, Simon!" said Farwell. "This man with oleman moccasin him make track getting on cayuse? Him stand so to get on cayuse. You sure of that?" Simon nodded. "Ah-ha!" he agreed. "Then he's a white man," Farwell exclaimed.
"Him say, s'pose me catch cultus man me catch kwimnum dolla'." He exhibited the five-dollar bill, grinning once more. "Good! Me nanitch 'round me find trail. Boss tyee man see track of oleman moccasin." He pointed to Sandy's right foot. Young McCrae, his face black as the heart of a storm cloud, said nothing; but his eyes glinted dangerously. The Indian continued: "Me klatawa kimta on trail.
The latter dismounted, and, stooping down, touched the young man's worn footgear. "Mamook huyhuy moccasin," said he. "Swap moccasins?" Sandy repeated. "What for? Yours are new. Chee moccasin, you; oleman moccasin, me. What are you getting at? That's fool talk." But Simon insisted. "Mamook huyhuy," said he. "Halo mitlite oleman moccasin." "Why shouldn't I wear my old moccasins?" asked Sandy.
Simon surveyed the track gravely, knelt, and examined it minutely. "Mebbyso Injun," he said. "Mebbyso white man," Farwell objected. "What makes you think it's an Indian?" "Oleman moccasin, him," Simon replied oracularly. "White man throw him away; Injun keep him, mend him mamook tipshin klaska." "Something in that, too," Farwell agreed. "It's a straight foot no swing-in to the toe.
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