“Good! Ye bet yer bottom dollar on that ar’, ye may. I calculate thar ain’t nothin’ in creation to ekal a buffler-hump; no, nothin’. Why, the juices squeeze out’n it when ye set yer teeth in it, like ile. Oh, it’s good. Ye bet I like it. Anyhow, I’ve got my opinion, and I’ll risk a beaver-pelt ye never tasted anythin’ half so good. So, thar!”
“I dinks I likes him pooty good,” said Jan. “Vell, den, ve coes unt kills him pymepye, pooty soon, unt cooks him hump. Vat him hump pe, Penn?”
“The first cut off the horns,” said Jules.
“I dinks dat ish von lie,” said Jan, coolly. “Dat ish too tough. I not talks mit you, Shule. I asks Penn.”
“I guess ye’ll find out what a buffler-hump is before ye’ve been long on the prairie. But, see hyar. It don’t taste half so good unless ye kill it yerself. So ye must try to kill one. I’ve always said ye’d got good stuff in ye, ef we could only bring it out, an’ I reckon we kin do it; eh, Jule?”
“Yes,” said Jules. “We’ll put him through.”
“I don’t vant no voolin’,” said Jan, in considerable trepidation. “I not likes dat. ’Tis not goot. S’pose you dells me right how to kill him, all right. S’pose you don’t, den I licks you, Shule. Yaw; dat ish vat I does.”
“No quarrelin’,” said Ben. “I won’t hev it. The fust one thet gits to fightin’, I’ll fetch him a lick over the jaw thet’ll make him sick; I will, by gravy. Now look out.”
In obedience to his signal, the party put themselves in motion, riding at a careful pace toward the black spots, which the experienced eye of the trapper had detected. A light wind was blowing in their faces.
“We’ve got the wind of ’em,” said Ben. “They kain’t smell us.”