ain't gwine to fight when 'tain't comf'table to fight."
"Sure, I'm thinkin' that was jest a Mandan trick, to try our mettle," asserted Patrick Gass.
"De Mandans now our heap frien's," assured Drouillard.
Colder grew the weather, until at the close of the first week in December the mercury of the thermometer stood at 10 above zero. The earth was freezing so rapidly that the men had hard work to set the pickets of the fence which was to enclose the open end of the fort.
Now on the morning of December 7, Patrick Gass paused in his work of aligning the fence stringers to which the pickets were being spiked, and swung his arms and puffed. His breath floated white in the biting wind. He had peeled his overcoat, and was working in his flannel shirt. Sha-ha-ka the Mandan chief shuffled business-like through the opening left for the gate. He was muffled from chin to ankles in a buffalo robe; and above it protruded his bushy white hair framing his solemn but good-humored wrinkled face.
"Top o' the mornin' to ye, Big White," hailed Pat. "What's the good news, this fine day?"
"Ooh!" grunted Big White, scarcely checking his stride. "Where Red Head? Long Knife? Heap buffs." And he passed on.
"Hooray!" cheered Patrick Gass. "Buff'lo, does he say?"
Suddenly, through the thin air drifted a distant medley of shrill shouts, across the river.
