"A man whose nose looks like a red-pepper pod in August, and his
shirt like a section o' rich bottom land, hain't no great reason
ter make remarks on other folks's use o' water."

Jake plucked up some courage from the relaxation in the savage grimness
of his captors, which seemed implied by this rough pleasantry, and
with him such recuperation of spirits naturally took the form of
brassy self-assertion.

"Don't you fellers know," he began with a manner and tone intended
to be placating, but instead was rasping and irritating, "don't you
fellers know that the best thing you can do with me is to take me
back to our people, and trade me off for one of your fellers that
they've ketched?"

"An' don't ye know thet the best thing ye kin do is to keep thet
gapin' mouth o' your'n shet, so thet the flies won't git no chance
to blow yer throat?" said the man whose nose had been aptly likened
to a ripe red-pepper pod, "an' the next best thing's fur ye to git
inter that cabin thar quicker'n blazes 'll scorch a feather, an'
stay thar without makin' a motion toward gittin' away. Git!" and
he made a bayonet thrust at Jake that tore open his blouse and shirt,
and laid a great gaping wound along his breast. Jake leaped into
the cabin and threw himself down upon the puncheon floor.

"Thar war none of our crowd taken," said another of the squad, who
had looked on approvingly. "They wuz all killed, an' the only way
to git even is ter send ye whar they are."

Jake made another earnest effort to recall one of the prayers he