The Indian was one of the worst specimens of his race—a creature naturally brutal, who had been rendered more debased by an excessive use of fire-water. As he clung to the door-post and looked at them out of bleared and watery eyes, he was as disgusting a specimen of the _genus homo_ as could be found between the two oceans. “Let me talk to this critter,” said Cooney Joe. “I calculate I understand the natur’ of the unadulterated, unb’iled, unwashed and unclean drunken red, as well as any man in the great Nor’-west. I do, by the livin’ hokies. Hyar, you ’possum, speak up, and speak quick; what ar’ ye looking fur now?” “Fire-water; poor Injun _very_ dry,” replied this noble red-man. “Tire—much tire; walk durn good ways; _mus’_ hab fire-water.” “You got to airn it fust, my noble red,” replied Joe. “Come, agitate yer jaw; tell us what ye want.” “S’pose you give Little Fox fire-water, den talk. How _can_ talk when no hab drink? Ugh!” “That’s the heathen philosophy, gents all,” said Joe, with a look of supreme disgust. “No whisky, no news. Got sech a thing as a drain of sperrits handy, ’square?” Mr. Wescott left the room, and returned shortly with a small flask of rum, from which he poured out a glass for the Indian, who drank it with avidity, smacked his lips, and held out the glass for more. “Hold on,” said Joe, pushing back the extended hand. “Not ef I know it, Injin. That tongue of yours begins to double, anyhow, and I reckon you’ll hev to do some talking afore you git any more rum.” “Pottawatomie big warrior, _much_ brave,” replied the Indian, loftily, striking his clenched hand upon his broad breast. “Give Injun rum.” “I’ll give you a bat ’long side your old head ef ye ask fur more afore you’ve done the work,” said Joe, angrily. “Come now, speak up. What d’ye want?” “Want rifle—want blanket—want _heap_ fire-water!” replied Little Fox. “Got heap story to tell.” “Lies, probably. Come, out with it, and ef it is any use to us, then we’ll pay han’sum. That’s the time of day.” “Want him _now_,” replied the Indian, with a surly glance at the speaker. “No tell news widout you put him down here.” “That won’t do, Injin,” said Joe. “You heard what the fellers done with Black-Hawk, just now. I’ve only got to say the word, and you go away the _sorest_ Injin in the Nor’-west. Tell us any really important news, and we’ll give you a rifle, two blankets and a keg of rum, and you kin drink you’self to death in a week.” “Much _promise_—little _do_. Dat white man’s way,” replied the Indian. “Little Fox no speak.” “Will you speak if _I_ promise to give you what you ask?” said Captain Melton, advancing. “Loud Tempest will do what he says,” replied the Indian, with a drunken leer. “Little Fox will believe him.” “Very well, then; I promise to give you the rifle, blankets and rum, if you tell us all you came to tell.” “Give Injun stool; sit down like white man. Floor much dizzy; whirl round _fast_. Ugh!”