He had not expected to walk straight into the camp of Injun Jim.

He had thought that of course he would have to go on to Round Butte and glean information there, perhaps; if he were exceptionally lucky he would meet Indians who would tell him what he wanted to know.

But here was a one-eyed buck, and he was old, and he lived in the Tippipahs,--Injun Jim by all description.
"Your squaw says you want tobacco." Casey advanced and held out the red can.

He knew better than to waste words, especially in the beginning.
Indians are peculiar; you must approach them by not seeming to approach at all.
The old fellow grunted and turned the can over and over in clawlike hands, and said he wanted a match and a paper.

Casey went farther; he rolled a cigarette and gave it to him and then rolled one for himself.