"That smells rather tall," Buck Thompson observed, but Ole Bar paid no attention.
"The woods in Arkansas is ankle deep with acorns and berries and other bar food. Everybody there eats bar, bar-ham and bar-sassage. The beds is covered with bar-skins. They don't use small skins like wild cat fer nothin' 'cept piller covers."
"Do they have hoss tradin' in them parts?" Buck Thompson inquired.
"Hoss tradin'? Well, I should say 'Yeh.' You galoots think you swap hosses, but in Arkansas——"
"Hallo, fellers," shouted someone in the outer circle of light.
"It's Windy Batts," several declared at once, and immediately the man whose qualifications to become a member of the charmed group had been put to the test, entered the circle of light.
He was scrutinized and with not an altogether approving eye. His arm was done up in a sling. The forefinger of his right hand was wrapped in a red, calico handkerchief. Something like a knob stuck out back of one ear which was covered with a square of muslin, giving it the appearance of a pat of butter. One eye was black and both legs seemed to be stiff. Greetings were brief. The main question was. "Who whipped?"
"Yeh—who hollered?" was asked.
Windy drew near the fire. "It was a great fight," he began. "The greatest fight that was ever fought in Springfield. We rolled over and over, him sometimes on top and me sometimes under. It was a fearful fight. Court turned out to see it and an Indian Chief was there. He said he never seen nothing like it."