“It was winter,” he continued, “the dead of winter.  And cold.  So cold that even the wolves and foxes had buried themselves in.  No fish that autumn, no game in the deep snows, and the Indians were starving.  Pied-Bot, my heart went dead when I saw Yellow Bird.  There didn’t seem to be anything left of her but her eyes and her hair—­those two great, shining braids, and eyes that were big and deep and dark, like beautiful pools.  Boy, you never saw an Indian —­an Indian like Yellow Bird—­cry.  They don’t cry very much.  But when that childhood fairy of mine first saw me she just stood there, swaying in her weakness, and the tears filled those big, wide-open eyes and ran down her thin cheeks.  She had married Slim Buck.  Two of their three children had died within a fortnight.  Slim Buck was dying of hunger and exhaustion.  And Yellow Bird’s heart was broken, and her soul was crying out for God to let her lie down beside Slim Buck and die with him—­when I happened along.

“Peter—­” Jolly Roger leaned over in the thickening dusk, and his eyes gleamed.  “Peter, if there’s a God, an’ He thinks I did wrong then, let Him strike me dead right here!  I’m willin’.  I found out what the trouble was.  There was a new Indian Agent, a cur.  And near the tribe was a Free Trader, another cur.  The two got together.  The Agent sent up the Treaty Money, and along with it—­ underground, mind you—­he sent a lot of whiskey to the Free Trader.  Inside of five days the whiskey got the Treaty Money from the Indians.  Then came winter.  Everything went bad, When I came—­ and found out what had happened—­eighteen out of sixty had died, and inside of another two weeks half the others would follow.  Pied-Bot, away back—­somewhere—­there must have been a pirate before me—­mebby a great-grandfather of mine.  I set out, I came back in three days, and I had a sledge-load of grub, and warm things to wear—­plenty of them.  My God, how those starving things did eat!  I went again, and returned in another week, with a still bigger sledge-load.  And Yellow Bird was getting beautiful again, and Slim Buck was on his feet, growing strong, and there was happiness—­and I think God A’mighty was glad.  I kept it up for two months.  Then the back-bone of the winter broke.  Game came into the country I left them well supplied—­and skipped.  That was what made me an outlaw, Pied-Bot.  That!”

He chuckled, and Peter heard the rubbing of his hands in the gloom.

“Want to know why?” he asked.  “Well, you see, I went over to the Free Trader’s, and this God the law don’t take into account went with me, and we found the skunk alone.  First I licked him until he was almost dead.  Then, sticking a knife into him about half an inch, I made him write a note saying he was called south suddenly, and authorizing me to take charge in his absence.  Then I chained him in a dugout in a place where nobody would find him.  And I took charge.  Pied-Bot, I sure did!  Everybody was on the trap-lines, and I wasn’t bothered much by callers.  And I fed and clothed my tribe for eight straight weeks, fed ’em until they grew fat, Boy—­and Yellow Bird’s eyes were bright as stars again.  Then I brought Roach—­that was his name—­back to his empty post, and I lectured him, an’ gave him another licking—­and left.”