“Bill’s willin’ to be a patriot as the game is commonly dealt, but when his love of country takes the form of poundin’ rocks, the noble sentiments which yeretofore bubbles in Bill’s breast commences to pall on Bill an’ he becomes none too shore but what trousers is right.  By second drink time—­only savages don’t drink, a paternal gov’ment barrin’ nosepaint on account of it makin’ ’em too fitfully exyooberant—­by second drink time the second evenin’ Bill lays down his hand—­pitches his hammer into the diskyard as it were—­an’ when I crosses up with him, Bill’s that abject he wears a necktie.  When Bill yields, the agent meets him half way, an’ him an’ Bill rigs a deal whereby Bill arrays himse’f Osage fashion whenever his hand’s crowded by tribal customs.  Other times, Bill inhabits trousers; an’ blankets an’ feathers is rooled out.

“Shore, I talks with Bill’s father, old Crooked Claw.  This yere savage is the ace-kyard of Osage-land as a fighter.  No, that outfit ain’t been on the warpath for twenty years when I sees ’em then it’s with Boggs’ old pards, the Utes.  I asks Crooked Claw if he likes war.  He tells me that he dotes on carnage like a jaybird, an’ goes forth to battle as joobilant as a drunkard to a shootin’ match.  That is, Crooked Claw used to go curvin’ off to war, joyful, at first.  Later his glee is subdooed because of the big chances he’s takin’.  Then he lugs out ’leven skelps, all Ute, an’ eloocidates.

“‘This first maverick,’ says Crooked Claw—­of course, I gives him in the American tongue, not bein’ equal to the reedic’lous broken Osage he talks—­’this yere first maverick,’ an’ he strokes the braided ha’r of a old an’ smoke-dried skelp, ’is easy.  The chances, that a-way, is even.  Number two is twice as hard; an’ when I snags onto number three—­I downs that hold-up over by the foot of Fisher’s Peak—­the chances has done mounted to be three to one ag’in me.  So it goes gettin’ higher an’ higher, ontil when I corrals my ’leventh, it’s ’leven to one he wins onless he’s got killin’s of his own to stand off mine.  I don’t reckon none he has though,’ says Crooked Claw, curlin’ his nose contemptuous.  ‘He’s heap big squaw—­a coward; an’ would hide from me like a quail.  He looks big an’ brave an’ strong, but his heart is bad—­he is a poor knife in a good sheath.  So I don’t waste a bullet on him, seein’ his fear, but kills him with my war-axe.  Still, he raises the chances ag’inst me to twelve to one, an’ after that I goes careful an’ slow.  I sends in my young men; but for myse’f I sort o’ hungers about the suburbs of the racket, takin’ no resks an’ on the prowl for a cinch,—­some sech pick-up as a sleeper, mebby.  But my ’leventh is my last; the Great Father in Washin’ton gets tired with us an’ he sends his walk-a-heaps an’ buffalo soldiers’—­these savages calls niggers ‘buffalo soldiers,’ bein’ they’re that woolly—­’an’ makes us love peace.  Which we’d a-had the Utes too dead to skin if it ain’t for the walk-a-heaps an’ buffalo soldiers.’