"It was long ago that the proud and haughty paleface got the bulge on the red man, and we have not been in the game to any great extent since then.

Every time we have held two pairs he has come in with one pair of sixes or a Winchester and raked the pot.

He has not given us any kind of a show for our white alley.

Whenever we seemed to be getting along fairly well and doing a little something, he has wrung in a cold deck on us and then shot us full of air holes, purely for the purpose of ventilation in case we objected.

Warriors, we have grown tired of being soaked in the neck." "That's right," nodded a savage, "unless we are soaked in the neck with fire water." "At last," shouted the orator--"at last we have arisen in our wrath and our war paint and we are out for scalps.