Lander was frozen with horror, and Phinny stealthily reached for his rifle. Old Deschamps effaced himself in a clump of bushes.
"What's the matter, man?" sharply demanded Lander. "Stop it and light your pipe."
"Light my pipe, ye pasty-faced pet o' Jim Bridger's," croaked Porker, twisting his thick lips in a most grotesque manner as if each word had to be dislodged by force. "By this time to-morrer I'll be lightin' my pipe in the other world an' yer ha'r'll be hangin' in a Blackfoot lodge."
"Shut up that fool talk!" shrilly commanded Phinny, drawing the gun to his side.
Porker was seized with a convulsion of laughter. His mirth was titanic and of a horrible quality. Pointing a quivering finger at the dazed Lander he shrieked:
"Ye poor fool! Tried to make it hot for me in Bridger's outfit, eh? Wal, here ye be only a few feet behind ol' Porker when he takes th' long trail.
"Goin' back to St. Louis, be ye? Yer hide will be tanned by Blackfoot smoke. They'll find me mad as th' mad wolf what bit me. They'll find ye"
