“Nick understand.  Want six, two, scalp off Frenchman’s head; wife and child; out yonder, over dere, up in Canada.  Nick do him—­what you give?”

“No, you red rascal, I want nothing of the sort—­it is peace now, (this conversation took place in 1764), and you know I never bought a scalp, in time of war.  Let me hear no more of this.”

“What you want, den?” asked Nick, like one who was a good deal puzzled.

“I want land—­good land—­little, but good.  I am about to get a grant—­a patent—­”

“Yes,” interrupted Nick, nodding; “I know him—­paper to take away Indian’s hunting-ground.”

“Why, I have no wish to do that—­I am willing to pay the red men reasonably for their right, first.”

“Buy Nick’s land, den—­better dan any oder.”

“Your land, knave!—­You own no land—­belong to no tribe—­have no rights to sell.”

“What for ask Nick help, den?”

“What for?—­Why because you know a good deal, though you own literally nothing.  That’s what for.”

“Buy Nick know, den.  Better dan he great fader know, down at York.”

“That is just what I do wish to purchase.  I will pay you well, Nick, if you will start to-morrow, with your rifle and a pocket-compass, off here towards the head-waters of the Susquehannah and Delaware, where the streams run rapidly, and where there are no fevers, and bring me an account of three or four thousand acres of rich bottom-land, in such a way as a surveyor can find it, and I can get a patent for it.  What say you, Nick; will you go?”

“He not wanted.  Nick sell ’e captain, his own land:  here in ’e fort.”

“Knave, do you not know me well enough not to trifle, when I am serious?”

“Nick ser’ous too—­Moravian priest no ser’ouser more dan Nick at dis moment.  Got land to sell.”

Captain Willoughby had found occasion to punish the Tuscarora, in the course of his services; and as the parties understood each other perfectly well, the former saw the improbability of the latter’s daring to trifle with him.

“Where is this land of yours, Nick,” he inquired, after studying the Indian’s countenance for a moment.  “Where does it lie, what is it like, how much is there of it, and how came you to own it?”

“Ask him just so, ag’in,” said Nick, taking up four twigs, to note down the questions, seriatim.

The captain repeated his inquiries, the Tuscarora laying down a stick at each separate interrogatory.

“Where he be?” answered Nick, taking up a twig, as a memorandum.  “He out dere—­where he want him—­where he say.—­One day’s march from Susquehanna.”

“Well; proceed.”

“What he like?—­Like land, to be sure.  T’ink he like water!  Got some water—­no too much—­got some land—­got no tree—­got some tree.  Got good sugar-bush—­got place for wheat and corn.”