He started to state his business in dignified, sweeping curves, but again McGlincy interrupted.
“If he can’t talk,” snapped McGlincy, “tell him to get out!”
The tone jarred Yellow Hair and the hostility bit into him. His blue eyes went dangerously slitted and he raked McGlincy with contempt. The man had no more manners than a Digger. White chief? More likely a white slave.
Yellow Hair started to say what he thought—and he was never hesitant about doing so—but Father Marc, quick to see the change, interposed.
“He’s trying to tell you hello, McGlincy,” said Father Marc. “He’s got some business and he’s from the Blackfeet. You had better listen or we’ll all be dead men.”
“Well, rot him, why didn’t he say so?” snarled McGlincy, angry at having his ignorance pointed out. “You think I can’t
