As though with sudden recollection, he
made another attempt. At once a gleam of intelligence shot across the
Indian's face, and his larynx vibrated to similar sounds.
"It is the Stick talk of the Upper White," La Flitche stopped long
enough to explain.
Then, with knit brows and stumbling moments when he sought
dim-remembered words, he plied the man with questions. To the rest it
was like a pantomime,--the meaningless grunts and waving arms and
facial expressions of puzzlement, surprise, and understanding. At
times a passion wrote itself on the face of the Indian, and a sympathy
on the face of La Flitche. Again, by look and gesture, St. Vincent was
referred to, and once a sober, mirthless laugh shaped the mouths of
them.
"So? It is good," La Flitche said, when the Indian's head dropped
back. "This man make true talk. He come from White River, way up. He
cannot understand. He surprised very much, so many white men. He
never think so many white men in the world. He die soon. His name Gow.
"Long time ago, three year, this man John Borg go to this man Gow's
country. He hunt, he bring plenty meat to the camp, wherefore White
River Sticks like him. Gow have one squaw, Pisk-ku. Bime-by John Borg
make preparation to go 'way. He go to Gow, and he say, 'Give me your
squaw. We trade. For her I give you many things.
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