“Your squaw says you want tobacco.”  Casey advanced and held out the red can.  He knew better than to waste words, especially in the beginning.  Indians are peculiar; you must approach them by not seeming to approach at all.

The old fellow grunted and turned the can over and over in clawlike hands, and said he wanted a match and a paper.  Casey went farther; he rolled a cigarette and gave it to him and then rolled one for himself.  They smoked, there in that unsavoury tepee, saying nothing at all.  Casey had achieved the first part of his dream; he was making friends with Injun Jim.

Later he went down to his own camp, leading William.  It was hard to wait and watch for the proper moment to broach the subject that filled his mind, and then induce the old Indian to talk.  Casey was beginning to understand why no one had wormed the secret from Jim.  When you are hundreds of miles and many months distant from a problem, it is easy to decide that you will do so and so, and handle the matter differently from the bungling men you have heard about.  To find Injun Jim and get him to tell where his gold mine was had seemed fairly easy to Casey when he was driving stage elsewhere, and could only think about it.  But when he sat on his haunches in the tepee, smoking with Injun Jim and conversing intermittently of such vital things as the prospect of rain that night, and the enforced delay in his journey because his pack mule was lame, speaking of gold mines in a properly disinterested and casual manner was not at all easy.

However, Casey ate a very hearty supper and went to bed studying the problem of somehow winning the old fellow’s gratitude.  Morning did not bring a solution, as it properly should have done, but he ransacked his pack, chose a small glass jar of blackberry jam and a little can of maple syrup, fortified himself with another red can of tobacco and went up to the camp, hoping for a streak of good luck.  As for medicine, he hadn’t a drop, and if he had he did not know for certain what ailed Injun Jim.  He thought it was just old age and general cussedness.

Injun Jim ate the jam, using a deadly looking knife and later his fingers, when the jam got low in the jar.  When he had finished that he opened the can and drank the maple syrup just as he would have drunk whisky,—­with a relish.  He smoked Casey’s tobacco in the stone pipe which the squaw brought him and appeared fairly well satisfied with life.  But he did not talk much, and what he did say was of no importance whatever.  Not once did he mention gold mines.

Casey went back to camp and swore at William as he counted his cans of luxuries.  He did not realize that he had established a dangerous precedent, but when he led William up to water, meaning to pass by the camp without stopping, the squaw halted him on his way back and told him briefly that her man wanted him.