"Baumberger all time fish--no
more." He waved his hand toward the Malad. "Baumberger
bueno--catchum fish--no more."
Peppajee got slowly and painfully upon his feet--rather, upon one
foot. When Good Indian held out a steadying arm, he accepted it,
and leaned rather heavily.
"Yo' eyes sick," said Peppajee, and grinned sardonically. "Yo'
eyes see all time Squaw-with-sun-hair. Fillum yo' eyes, yo' see
notting. Yo' catchum squaw, bimeby mebbyso see plenty mo'. Me
no catchum sick eye. Mebbyso me see heap plenty."
"What you see, you all time watchum Baumberger?"
But Peppajee, hobbling where he must walk, crawling where he
might, sliding carefully where a slanting bowlder offered a few
feet of smooth descent, and taking hold of Good Indian's offered
arm when necessity impelled him, pressed his thin lips together,
and refused to answer. So they came at last to the ledge beside
the rapids, where a thin wisp of smoke waved lazily in the
vagrant breeze which played with the ripples and swayed languidly
the smaller branches of the nearby trees.
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