“Drouble nodings! You are a fool. You are vorking for me, und you don’t know it. Do you t’ink I vould let you stay dere alone in New York to starf? No, sir! I vould not let Somolus Levinsky get from me mine errant-boy. Not since I dit loset mein Dora. I must haf some chilt arount me, or I shall go grazy. Dere! dere! dake de hoss out dere und find him some grass or someding. You must vork und earn your vages.” “All right, Mr. Wild Bill,” said Loney, smiling, for he knew well that the shoemaker would not starve or overwork man or beast. While the child was leading the weary horse toward a trough which received its water from far up the mountains, a tall Indian, in full chief’s dress--feathers and all--stood on the edge of the path to the run. The boy, being on the farther side of the horse, did not see the Indian, who stood with folded arms looking at the child, then at the poor horse and lastly at the surprising “get-up” of the shoemaker. The latter looked at his leggings and belt with pardonable pride, then felt of his four pistols, one by one, and, wishing to keep up the delusion of his own greatness, he strutted about a little, at the same time saying: “I shall see if I can remember de vay to shout. Ee--you! I am de Vilt Bill, de Bull-man. I am de pest shoemaker--na--na--dot is not it. I am de rink-tail squealer of de cook-stofe--no, I mean range. I am de----” Here the “bad man” happened to get a view of Red Eagle, the Indian, which at first paralyzed him. Then he rallied and drew one of his pistols and, with the bravery of a “well-heeled” man, he took a step forward, saying, with growing courage: “Dot is Hiawatha. Gif me a pack of cigarroots.” As he said this, Morris held out his hand, whereat the Indian held out his own hand, saying, in a guttural voice: “Ugh!” “Vot’s dot?” asked the bad man. “Ugh!” repeated the Indian. “Is dot a man or a cow? Vot for a kind of talk is dot?” “Ugh, ugh, ugh!” was the Indian’s reply. “Vere is your pain, mein friend?” “Got no pain--want firewater,” said the Indian, stolidly. “Vell, vot do you t’ink of dot?” said Morris aloud, “vanting fire und vater hot, togedder.” The noble redman then pointed to the formidable array of pistols and said, solemnly: “Ugh! pale-face heap big chief. Give Injun tobac.” “I vill gif you nodings. Go to your own cigar-store und get it.” The big Indian must have had a fine sense of humor, as he said, pointing to the bony horse that was drinking as if he would never stop, with a majestic wave of his hand: “Big chief got fast horse.” “Fast! I dink so. He didn’t eat nodings put dust for two veeks--only a little oatses, und stickses, vot dey calls crass out here.” “Chief better tie horse. He run away.” “Don’t pe afrait. You vant to puy him?” “Injun no buy horse. Injun got fast ponies. No can beat.” “Mein horse is fast, too--ven he is tied to de ground.” “Injun race ponies ’gainst horse for firewater and tobac.”