"What is?"
"You ain't heard the news?"
Smoke shook his head.
"The bachelors told me. They just got the word. To-night it comes off, though it's months ahead of the calendar."
Smoke shrugged his shoulders.
"Ain't interested in hearin'?" Shorty teased.
"I'm waiting to hear."
"Well, Danny's wife just told the bachelors," Shorty paused impressively. "An' the bachelors told me, of course, that the maidens' fires is due to be lighted to-night. That's all. Now how do you like it?"
"I don't get your drift, Shorty."
"Don't, eh? Why, it's plain open and shut. They's a skirt after you, an' that skirt is goin' to light a fire, an' that skirt's name is Labiskwee. Oh, I've been watchin' her watch you when you ain't lookin'. She ain't never lighted her fire. Said she wouldn't marry a Indian. An' now, when she lights her fire, it's a cinch it's my poor old friend Smoke."
"It sounds like a syllogism," Smoke said, with a sinking heart reviewing Labiskwee's actions of the past several days.
"Cinch is shorter to pronounce," Shorty returned. "An' that's always the way--just as we're workin' up our get-away, along comes a skirt to complicate everything. We ain't got no luck. Hey! Listen to that, Smoke!"
Three ancient squaws had halted midway between the bachelors' camp and the camp of McCan, and the oldest was declaiming in shrill falsetto.
Smoke recognized the names, but not all the words, and Shorty translated with melancholy glee.