“David man good shoot,” he went on. “Um shoot plenty um shoot more good. Um got cossaquot?”
“Cossaquot?” repeated David.
“Aye, cossaquot.” He drew an imaginary bow-string, snapped his thumb and forefinger apart, and gazed through the wigwam door.
“You mean bow and arrows? Nay, I no got cossaquot, brother.”
“Me make um you plenty good. You shoot um all-time. You be good shoot, good fight, good hunt.”
“Thank you, Sequanawah; I should like that.”
“Aye,” grunted the Indian.
Conversation lapsed. Sequanawah replaced the stem of his pipe between his lips and smoked awhile. At last he emptied the ashes from the bowl, arose and walked to the entrance. There he turned, laid a hand on his heart, and then pointed to David. “Sequanawah um brother,” he said simply. “Nawhaw nissis.”
“Farewell,” returned David. “May your meat do you much good.”
He was glad to have gained Sequanawah’s friendship, although whether it would profit
