“Injun give gloves for bottle,” the buck went on, reaching out a gaudily beaded pair. “Not a bloomin’ drap,” returned Pat in decided tones. “Give shirt and gloves,” persisted the buck. “Go long wid ye!” Pat grew stubborn. “Give pony!” “Not a drap, ye spalpeen! Didn’t I tell ye?” “Oh, let the poor devil have a swig to quench his thirst,” said Jim; “why don’t ye?” “Why don’t I?” echoed Pat. “Why, the likes of it! And can’t ye see it’s the last swig in me bottle? D’ye think I’d let that red devil have it when me own throat’s a-parchin’?” He had uncorked and raised the bottle while he spoke and now he drained it before the thirsty eyes of the Indians. Then tossing the bottle to the begging buck, who caught it eagerly, he said, “There! I’ll not be stingy wid ye. Take the last swate smell.” But while the boys were roaring over Pat’s actions, another act was being performed with no audience to watch. One of the bucks, unnoticed, had slipped into and out of the shack. His blanket might have appeared bulgy, if one had looked closely, but the boys paid no attention to it. After the Redskins had gone, however, Cap Hanks went to the cupboard for a good-night toddy and found his gallon jug of choice old rye gone. Immediately there was an uproar of swearing and accusation, which resulted in rightly placing the blame on the Indians. But a greater roar followed shortly after dusk, when the drunken bucks began to make night hideous over among the wickiups. The yelling and screaming of the bucks, the frightened squaws and papooses, shocked the silent valley. “It’s the devil’s own fun that’s up,” said Cap Hanks as he half rose from his bunk to listen. “Let’s go over and see the circus,” said Dick. “Not for me,” returned Cap Hanks. “You need some of the smartness taken out of you, so you’d better try it. The thing I’m going to do is to get my breeches on and load my gun. There’s no tellin’ what might happen.” The other boys followed the suggestion. Then they lay down again to listen rather nervously to the yelling and shrieking that cut fitfully through the murmur of the trees and the sound of the stream. It was only a faint suggestion of the savage orgie that was being enacted around the wigwam fires by the whisky crazed bucks and terrified squaws and little ones. The suggestion of what might come to them sobered the crowd of cowboys. They had little to say as they lay listening till things grew calm again. It was nearly daybreak, however, before they had all quieted into sleep. CHAPTER V FISHERMAN’S LUCK The summer days that followed the Indian mêlée were always counted by Fred as among the richest of his life. His task was to herd the blooded stock.