“Frettin’, I warrant. Stop it, boy, stop it. We can’t allus hev our way in this world. If we did, we’d get so cranky people couldn’t live with us.” He stirred the coals to warm up the coffee, then he cut some slices from a haunch of roasted venison and put these with bread and butter on the rustic table. “Here, set up to this and pitch in. You’ll feel better after you git a cup o’ this smoking coffee down. This fall rain soaks to the bones.” “I’m hungrier than I thought,” said Fred, as he began to eat. “This venison is fine.” “That’s a piece o’ the yearlin’ buck I got the other day--shot him right from the door. It seemed kind o’ mean to kill him, he looked so perty; but I was needin’ the meat; he’s as fat as a butter ball; that’s the kind that makes good eatin’.” “Do they often come close to your cabin?” “I see ’em every few days. This storm will bring a herd o’ ’em down, I reckon. They winter in the foothills, you know. Elk and moose like to browse on the willows along the creeks.” “Which meat do you like better, elk or moose?” “Oh, moose beats elk way yender, to my notion; but nary one’s got the taste of tender buffalo--or maybe my appetite’s growin’ old.” “Did the buffalo ever roam over this valley?” “Yes, herds of ’em. Ain’t you seen their skulls lyin’ round?” “I wonder if that was one I picked out of the creek the other day when I went to take a drink. It was a big thick one with short horns.” “That’s the kind; they’re scattered all over here. I used to hunt ’em with the Shoshones on them rollin’ hills over west thar. One time I was with Washakie’s band when we killed nigh on to thirty of ’em. That old robe in the corner come from that hunt.” “You knew Washakie, then?” “Like a brother--mighty good Injun, too. Got lots of white sense in his head; but he likes whisky too well. That cursed stuff’ll end his trail one of these days, I’m afraid. Why I see him one time down at Bridger come into the tradin’ store with a bunch o’ braves and lift the feller in charge clean over the counter; then he helped himself and his bucks to a barrel o’ whisky that stood in the corner; took all they wanted--didn’t touch another thing--and they paid for the whisky, every cent, after their spree was over. But it was warm times for the squaws and papooses while it was on, I tell ye. We didn’t know what minute they’d cut loose and lift our scalps. You never kin tell what’ll happen when an Injun gits full o’ whisky.” “Yes, we found that out when that band got drunk down by the creek a month or so ago.” “What band?” “I don’t know--Old Copperhead, I believe the boys called their chief. They seemed to be a hunting party, but they acted sulky and disappeared about as suddenly as they came.”