Mose stood by looking up, and
wagging his tail in token of happiness at the reunion of the three
old friends. There were tears in Joe's eyes when, with a last
affectionate caress, he turned away from his pet.
"Come, Jim, I'll take you to Mr. Wells."
They stated across the little square, while Mose went back under the
wagon; but at a word from Joe he bounded after them, trotting
contentedly at their heels. Half way to the cabins a big, raw-boned
teamster, singing in a drunken voice, came staggering toward them.
Evidently he had just left the group of people who had gathered near
the Indians.
"I didn't expect to see drunkenness out here," said Jim, in a low
tone.
"There's lots of it. I saw that fellow yesterday when he couldn't
walk. Wentz told me he was a bad customer."
The teamster, his red face bathed in perspiration, and his sleeves
rolled up, showing brown, knotty arms, lurched toward them. As they
met he aimed a kick at the dog; but Mose leaped nimbly aside,
avoiding the heavy boot. He did not growl, nor show his teeth; but
the great white head sank forward a little, and the lithe body
crouched for a spring.
"Don't touch that dog; he'll tear your leg off!" Joe cried sharply.
"Say, pard, cum an' hev' a drink," replied the teamster, with a
friendly leer.
"I don't drink," answered Joe, curtly, and moved on.
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