Nothing now remained to do but to get him out of the water without injuring
his scales: "hoc opus, hic labor." We mustered strong: there were three
Indians from the creek, there was my own Indian Yan, Daddy Quashi, the
negro from Mrs. Peterson's, James, Mr. R. Edmonstone's man, whom I was
instructing to preserve birds, and lastly myself.
I informed the Indians that it was my intention to draw him quietly out of
the water and then secure him. They looked and stared at each other, and
said I might do it myself, but they would have no hand in it; the cayman
would worry some of us. On saying this, "consedere duces," they squatted on
their hams with the most perfect indifference.
The Indians of these wilds have never been subject to the least restraint,
and I knew enough of them to be aware that if I tried to force them against
their will they would take off and leave me and my presents unheeded, and
never return.
Daddy Quashi was for applying to our guns, as usual, considering them our
best and safest friends.
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