"Water is cold, and those," pointing to the sheep, "have passed."
"You go back, I tell you! I hate every filthy brute of you! My best pal was sent to glory in that funeral fire on Murderer's Bar, and no Indian will ever get aught from me."
"Me pay," said the Indian leader slowly, "Me pay cayuse, me pay boy."
"No, you won't pay! You'll go back and wade the river like the low beasts that you are."
The chief began a fierce oration. Longley ran into the tollhouse and came out with a sawed-off shotgun.
"Now, will you go?" he cried, defiantly.
The Indians were sober, and they went. As they came abreast of the pier under the bridge the toll-keeper jeered and laughed at them, and pelted them with rocks.
They looked up with hate, but went stolidly on their way.