“Will I, though?”
“Silence, fool! I meant exactly what I said, and I further do when I tell you that another impudent word will be uttered at your peril. I am in no enviable mood, just now, and am not to be trifled with. Go your way, and leave me to go mine.”
For a full minute the gaze of the hunter never left the eyes of the speaker, after the latter had finished his exclamations. But at the end of that time a smile, that might have been of contempt, curled his lip, and he broke the silence:
“See hyur, stranger,” he said, in a low, impressive voice, “does yer know who an’ what I am?”
“I only know that you are called Nick Robbins,” replied McCabe, somewhat taken aback by the hunter’s words and manner.
“Wal, it’s lucky fur ye ’ut ye don’t know me better ’n that, cause ef ye did, an’ should speak to me in that style, I’d knock yer from hyur to Christmas, ye blamed blow-fly! What d’ye take me fur, anyhow? Let me tell yer ’tain’t goin’ to pay yer to make an enemy o’ me. Why, younker, don’t ye know ’ut I can upset that little scheme o’ your’n in a jiffy—”
“What scheme?” gasped McCabe, in considerable alarm.
“What scheme! Ha! ha! ha! Yer knows well enough what scheme, ye blasted scape-gallows! Hain’t yer jest been talkin’ to Simon Girty ’bout a gang o’ white people as are campin’ on that island down yander? and didn’t ye tell him ye wanted every mother’s son of ’em slaughtered, ’ceptin’ one purty female, an’ she wur to be captur’d fur yer wife?”
“Good God! how did you learn this?”