"That's all very nice, only you must consider the stripe of man you're dealing with----" "I can roll a gun, Fraser." "But, Jupiter! This chap isn't going to fight you in the open. He'll use Indian tactics--fact is, he was raised among 'em." "_What's that?_" asked Lounsbury. "Raised among 'em, I said--with the Sioux." "Speaks the tongue, then?" For some reason, the storekeeper seemed strangely agitated. "Why, yes." At that, Lounsbury was off, making straight for the entrance of the building they had been watching. Fraser went tearing after, and not far from the door managed to stop him. "For Heaven's sake!" he gasped. "What's struck you?" "Fraser," said Lounsbury, "did you hear that the Colonel wanted an interpreter?" "Why--why--great Scott!" "Exactly--great Scott!" The storekeeper set off again. "Hold on." Fraser caught his arm. "Your scheme's all right, but you can't impress the man. He's got to go of his own accord." "Hm! that's so." "What you suppose he'll say if you rush in there and ask him to please go away on this long trip and leave your friends serenely in possession of the land?" "I wouldn't say 'please'--but you're right. Let's take a look through that window." Fraser assented. Shoulder to shoulder, they tiptoed forward and, keeping out of the shaft of light, viewed the scene within. It was a busy one, and well bore out the inviting legend of the shingle sign. Along the plank bar, "the troopers" were thickly ranged, smacking their lips in "delight" over greasy glasses. Beyond them was a squint-eyed man who trotted untiringly to and fro, mixing and pouring. Nearer was the stove, its angular barrel and widespread legs giving it the appearance of some horrid, fire-belching animal. An unbroken circle of men surrounded it, hats on, rawhide-bottomed chairs tilted back to an easy slant. From their pipes and cigars smoke rose steadily and hung, a blue mist, against the sloping rafters of the roof. There was little talking in the circle. Two or three were asleep, their heads sagging on their necks with maudlin looseness. The others spoke infrequently, but often let down their chairs while they spat in the sand-box under the stove, or screwed about in the direction of the gaming-table. Among these was Old Michael. He sat nearest the door, a checkerboard balanced on his knees, his black stub pipe in its toothy vise. And when he was not feeding the stove's flaming maw with broken boxes, barrel-staves and green wood, his blowzy countenance was suspended over the pasteboards he was thumbing in a game of solitaire.