“How d’ye s’pose?” asked the hunter, with a leer.
“It’s all a base lie!” vociferated the ruffian. “You don’t know what you are talking about!”
“Easy, my friend,” said the hunter, coolly. “I ain’t used to bein’ called a liar by anybody, an’ I can’t stand it. I’m a right docile chap long as nobody crosses my path, but when once’t I git my dander riz, I can’t git it down ag’in till I’ve bent some pusson’s ear. Now, ye won’t make anything by denyin’ this ’ut I’ve ’cused ye of, for this reason: I heerd every word o’ yer conversation with Simon Girty. Jest reflect a minute, an’ ye’ll agree that I’d make a better friend than enemy, knowin’ what I do, so ye’ll do well to curb that tongue o’ your’n ’fore ye ruffle my feathers.”
“There is something behind your words I don’t understand,” said McCabe, after searching in vain for the “something” in the never changing countenance of the hunter.
“Is, hey? Ef that’s the case I’ll jest give yer understandin’ a lift. As I said afore, I heerd every word that passed ’twixt you an’ Girty, an’ in course I must ’a’ been clus’ by to hear. You say ye don’t know me, ’ceptin’ my name are Robbins?”
“I said so.”
“Do anybody else suspicion more?”
“I have never heard of any such suspicion.”
“Good. Now, younker, look at me clus’. Do I look as though I mought be disguised?”