Injun Jim did not want Casey; he wanted more jam.  Casey went back to camp and got another can, this time of strawberry, and in a spirit of peevishness added a small tin of the liver paste that had caused him a night’s discomfort.  He took them to the tepee, and Injun Jim ate the complete contents of both cans and seemed disgruntled afterwards; so much so that he would not talk at all but smoked in brooding silence, staring with his one malevolent eye at the stained wall of the tepee.

An hour later he began to move himself restlessly in the blanket and to mutter Piute words, the full meaning of which Casey did not grasp.  But he would not answer when he was spoken to, so Casey went back to his camp.  And that night Injun Jim was very sick.

Next day however he was sufficiently recovered to want more jam.  Casey filled his pockets with small cans and doled them out one by one and gossipped artfully while he watched Injun Jim eat pickles, India relish and jelly with absolute, inscrutable impartiality.  Casey felt sympathetic qualms in his own stomach just from watching the performance, but he was talking for a gold mine and he did not stop.

“You know Willow Pete?” he asked garrulously.  “Big, tall man.  Drinks whisky all the time.  Willow Pete found a gold mine two moons ago.  He’s rich now.  Got a big barrel of whisky.  Got silk shirts like this—­” he plucked at his own silken sleeve “—­got lots of jam all the time.  Every day drinks whisky and eats jam.”

“Hunh!” Injun Jim ran his forefinger dexterously around the inside of a jelly glass and licked the finger with the nonchalance of a two-year-old.  “Hunh.  Got heap big gol’ mine, me.  No can go ketchum two year, mebby.  I dunno.  Feet no damn good for walk.  Back no damn good for ride.  No ketchum gol’ long time now.”

Casey took a chew of tobacco.  This was getting to the point he had been aiming for, and he needed his wits working at top speed.

“Well, if you got a gold mine, you can eat jam all the time.  Drink whisky, too,” he added, hushing his conscience peremptorily.  “If you’ve got a white man that’s your friend, he might take your gold to town and buy whisky and jam.”

Injun Jim considered, his finger searching for more jelly.  “White man no good for Injun, mebby.  I dunno.  Ketchum gol’, mebby no givum.  Tell all white mans.  Heap mans come.  White man horses eat grass.  Drink all water.  Shootum deer, shootum rabbit, shootum all damn time.  Make big house.  Heap noise all time.  No place for Injuns no more.  No good.”

“White man not all same, Jim.  One white man maybe good friend.  Help get gold, give you half.  You buy lots of jam, lots of whisky, lots of silk shirts, have good time.”  Casey looked at him straight.  He could do it, because he meant what he said; even the whisky, I regret to say.

Injun Jim accepted a cigarette and smoked it, saying never a word.  Casey smoked the mate to it and waited, trying to hide how his fingers trembled.  Injun Jim turned himself painfully on the blankets and regarded Casey steadily with his one suspicious eye.  Casey met the look squarely.