The news had not come to us; so
the veterinary obliged. A dozen Indians, drifting into the valley for
the haying about to begin, had tarried near Kulanche and bought whiskey
of the Swede. The selling of this was a lawless proceeding and the
consumption of it by the purchasers had been hazardous in the extreme.
Briefly, the result had been what is called in newspaper headlines a
stabbing affray. I quote from our guest's recital:
"Then, after they got calmed down and hid their knives, and it
looked peaceful again, they decided to start all over; but the
liquor was out, so that old scar-faced Pyann jumps on a pony and
rides over from the camp for a fresh supply. He pulled up out in
front of the Swede's and yelled for three bottles to be brought out
to him, pronto! If he'd sneaked round to the back door and
whispered he'd have got it all right, but this was a little too
brash, because there were about a dozen men in the bar and the
Swede was afraid to sell an Injin whiskey so openly. All he could
do was go to the door and tell this pickled aborigine that he never
sold whiskey to Injins and to get the hell out of there! Pyann
called the Swede a liar and some other things, mentioning dates,
and started to climb off his pony, very ugly.
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