"She? Well, we'll attend to her after we git him out of the way. He is the worst obstacle to our path, at present. Maybe when you see the girl you will take a fancy to her."
"Pish! I want no petticoats clinging to me—much less an ignorant backwoods clodhopper. She is probably a fit mate for an Indian chief."
"You are too rough on the tender sex, boy," and the elder Filmore gave vent to a disconnected laugh. "You must remember that your mother was a woman."
"Was she?" Clarence bit the end of his waxed mustache, and mused over his sire's startling announcement. "You recollect that I never saw her."
"D'ye carry poppin'-jays, pilgrims?" demanded Jehu, turning so suddenly upon the two passengers as to frighten them out of their wits.
"Popping-jays?" echoed Filmore, senior.
"Yas—shutin'-irons—rewolvers—patent perforatin' masheens."
"Yes, we are armed, if that is what you mean."
On dashed the stage through the echoing canyon—on plunged the snorting horses, excited to greater efforts by the frequent application of the cracking lash. The pines grew thicker, and the moonlight less often darted its rays down athwart the road.
"Hey!" yelled a rough voice from within the stage "w'at d'ye drive so fast fer? Ye've jonced the senses clean out uv a score o' us."