You must know, there was some bloody piece of business done in times past (Injuns is the boys for them things!)--the murdering of a knot of innocent people--by some of the tribe, with the old villain Wenonga at the head of 'em.

Ever since that, the Jibbenainosay has been murdering among them; and they hold that it's a judgment on the tribe, as ondoubtedly it is.

And now, you see, that's jist the reason why the old chief has turned such a vagabond; for the tribe is rifled at him, because of his bringing such a devil on them, and they won't follow him to battle no more, except some sich riff-raff, vagabond rascals as them we picked up for this here rascality, no how.
And so, you see, it has a sort of set the old feller mad: he thinks of nothing but the Jibbenainosay,--( that is, when he's sober, though, cuss him, I believe it's all one when he's drunk, too.)--of hunting him up and killing him, for he's jist a feller to fight the devil, there's no two ways about it.

It was because I told him we was going to the woods on Salt, where the crittur abounds, and where he might get wind of him, that he smashed his rum-keg, and agreed to go with us." "Well, well," said Doe's associate, "this is idle talk.

We have won the victory, and must enjoy it.