“You got more shirt?” Jim’s finger pointed at the blue and green stripes.  “Yo’ got more jam?  You bringum.  Heap sick, me, mebby die.  Me no takeum gol’ me die.  No wantum, me die.  Yo’ mebby good man.  I dunno.  Me ketchum heap jam, ketchum heap silk shirt, ketchum heap ’bacco, heap whisky, mebby me tellum you where ketchum gol’ mine.  Me die, yo’ heap rich—­”

He turned suddenly, lifted his right arm and sent his knife swishing through the air.  It sliced its way through the tepee wall and hung there quivering, Caught by the hilt.  Injun Jim called out vicious, Piute words.  “Hahnaga!” he commanded fiercely.  “Hahnaga!”

The lean old squaw came meekly, stood just within the tepee while her lord spat words at her.  She answered apathetically in Piute and backed out.  Presently she returned, driving before her a young squaw whom Casey had not before seen.  The young squaw was holding a hand upon her other arm, and Casey saw blood between her fingers.  The young squaw was not particularly meek.  She stood there sullenly while Injun Jim berated her in the Indian tongue, and once she muttered a retort that made the old man’s fingers go groping over the blankets for a weapon; whereat the young squaw laughed contemptuously and went out, sending Casey a side glance and a fleeting smile as full of coquetry as ever white woman could employ.

The interruption silenced the old buck upon the subject of gold.  Casey sat there and chewed tobacco and waited, schooling his impatience as best he could.  Injun Jim muttered in Piute, or lay with his one eye closed.  But Casey knew that he did not sleep; his thin lips were drawn too tense for slumber.  So he waited.

Injun Jim opened his eye suddenly, looked all around the tepee and then stared fixedly at Casey.  “Young squaw no good.  Heap much white talk.  Stealum gol’ mine, mebby.  I dunno.”  He gestured for his knife, and Casey got it for him.  Injun Jim fondled it evilly.

“Bimeby killum.  Mebby.  I dunno.  Yo’ ketchum jam, ketchum shirt—­how many jam yo’ ketchum?”

Casey meditated awhile.  He had not planned an exclusive jam diet for Injun Jim, therefore his supply was getting low.  But at the tenderfoot camp was much more, enough to last Injun Jim to the border of the happy hunting grounds,—­if he did not loiter too long upon the way.  There was no telling how long Injun Jim would be able to eat jam, but Casey was a good gambler.

“If I go get a lot more, and get silk shirts—­six,” he counted with his fingers, “you tell me where your gold mine is.”

“Yo’ bringum heap jam, bringum shirt.  Me tellum.”  His one eye was bright.  “Yo’ bringum jam.  Yo’ bringum shirt.  Yol giveum me.”  He patted the bare dirt beside the blankets, signifying that he wanted the jam and shirts there, within reach of his hand.  He even twisted his cruel old lips into a smile.  “Me tellum.  Me shakeum hand.”

He held out his left hand and Casey clasped it soberly, though he wanted to jump up and crack his heels together,—­as he confided afterwards.  Injun Jim laid the blade of his knife across the clasped hands.