He regarded critically his handiwork, muttered a
"Bueno" under his breath, knocked the ashes from his pipe, and
returned it to some mysterious hiding-place beneath his blanket.
Then he picked up his moccasin.
"Them damn' snake, him no speakum," he observed disgustedly.
"Heap fool me; him biteum"--he made a stabbing gesture with thumb
and finger in the air by way of illustration--"then him go
quick." He began gingerly trying to force the moccasin upon his
foot, his mouth drawn down with the look of one who considers
that he has been hardly used.
"How you get home?" Good Indian's thoughts swung round to
practical things. "You got horse?"
Peppajee shook his head, reached for his knife, and slit the
moccasin till it was no more than a wrapping. "Mebbyso heap
walk," he stated simply.
"Mebbyso you won't do anything of the kind," Good Indian
retorted. "You come down and take a horse. What for you all
time watchum Baumberger?" he added, remembering then what had
brought them both upon the bluff.
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