I asks Crooked Claw if he likes war.

He tells me that he dotes on carnage like a jaybird, an' goes forth to battle as joobilant as a drunkard to a shootin' match.

That is, Crooked Claw used to go curvin' off to war, joyful, at first.

Later his glee is subdooed because of the big chances he's takin'.

Then he lugs out 'leven skelps, all Ute, an' eloocidates.
"'This first maverick,' says Crooked Claw--of course, I gives him in the American tongue, not bein' equal to the reedic'lous broken Osage he talks--'this yere first maverick,' an' he strokes the braided ha'r of a old an' smoke-dried skelp, 'is easy.