"--you certainly ain't him. Onload your grief."

"The theme of my discourse is aborigines, their dispositions,
animadversions, and propensities," explained the constable. "According
to the latest scientific hypotheses, the metempsychosis--"

Tom threw up his hands. "Help! Help! I never studied geology none.
Don't know this hypotenuse you're pow-wowin' about any more'n my paint
hawss does. Come again in one syllables."

"Noticed any trouble among the Crees lately--that is, any more than
usual?"

The junior partner of C.N. Morse & Company considered. "Why, yes,
seems to me I have--heap much swagger and noise, plenty rag-chewin'
and tomahawk swingin'."

"Why?"

"Whiskey, likely."

"Where do they get it?"

Tom looked at the soldier quizzically. "Your guess is good as mine,"
he drawled.

"I'm guessing West and Whaley."

Morse made no comment. Bully West had thrown in his fortune with Dug