Good Indian felt for one instant as if he were
that trout, and Baumberger was playing him skillfully. "He's
trying to make me let go all holds and tip my hand," he thought,
keenly reading him, and he steadied himself.
"What d'yuh mean by me pouring oil on fire!" Baumberger urged
banteringly. "Sounds like the hero talking to the villain in one
of these here save-him-he's-my-sweetheart plays."
"You go to the devil," said Good Indian shortly.
"Don't repeat yourself, m' son; it's a sign uh failing powers.
You said that to me this morning, remember?
And--don't--get--excited!" His right arm raised slightly when he
said that, as if he expected a blow for his answer.
Good Indian saw that involuntary arm movement, but he saw it from
the tail of his eye, and he drew his lips a little tighter.
Clearly Baumberger was deliberately trying to force him into a
rage that would spend some of its force in threats, perhaps. He
therefore grew cunningly calm, and said absolutely nothing.
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