“All the herds on the perarer are not worth a single curl of her har. Do you see that timber yender?”
“Yes; but it appears far distant.”
“Forty miles in a bee-line; but if we don’t get thar before the moon rises, we might as well turn our horses loose and give the gal up.”
“Let us push on, then. The day is a long one—our horses are not fresh, and the day is drawing nigh to noon.”
“Thar you’re right. The sun comes straight down without castin’ a shadder. If your horses had been only perarer-born now, and could travel all day without water, then—”
“Travel all day without water!”
“Thar is not one drop between us and that timber!”
“Few then will reach it; but—hark!”
“The boys are at it! I’d give a sack full of slugs to be thar! Aha! how the rifles speak! There goes a red devil at every flash if they’d only Western hands hold of the stocks. By the eternal! but they’ve stampeded the cattle! No; it’s the prowlin’ reptiles runnin’ away like a pack of whipped cayotes. Yes, there they go scamperin’ over the perarer. Your train is safe, stranger, though thar may be more’n one hand less to tend it; but heaven have mercy on the next that comes along weak-handed. It’ll take many a hoof and many a scalp to pay for this day’s work; and if they have seen La Moine, it will be dangerous travelin’ for Kirk Waltermyer after this.”
“You—why?”