After the sheep were counted and gone, Longley glanced scowlingly across
the bridge and hastily closed the tollgate. A band of Indians, several
on ponies but most of them on foot, crossed the bridge and halted before
him.

"Go back, ye varmints!" growled Longley.

"No Indian pay," said the old chief. "He go the bridge and the road - no
pay."

"Well, the Chinamen paid."

"But the Indians, no! No pay. Me go Whiskey Bar - big pow-wow. Plenty
ox, plenty bear meat, plenty firewater - "

"You go back!" roared the tollkeeper, swearing, "and go ford the river.
That's good enough for a Digger! The ferry's been taken off, but the
water is not so high."

The old Indian scowled, and the young bucks began a guttural complaint
which he silenced with a gesture and a grunt of command.

"Water is cold, and those," pointing to the sheep, "have passed."

"You go back, I tell you! I hate every filthy brute of you! My best pal
was sent to glory in that funeral fire on Murderer's Bar, and no Indian
will ever get aught from me."

"Me pay," said the Indian leader slowly, "Me pay cayuse, me pay boy."