He had hardly finished when a huge man burst from a thicket and collared him, with a series of horrible oaths, almost knocking him down in his violence.
“Blast ye!” the new-comer yelled, with another shake, “haint ye b’en told ter keep yer big mouth shet while ye’re in these woods? Do yer want ter bring the Regulators down on us? Be quiet, I say, yer dog!”
“Golly, Mars’r Fink, am dat yo’ fo’ shore? Golly, Mars’r Fink, I’s right glad ter see yer—I be, fo’ a fac’.”
“Shet up! It’s nuthin’ but ‘golly, Mars’r Fink’ all the hull time. Now it’s got ter be stopped—d’ye understand?”
“Sho’, Mars’r Fink; enty you know I’s allus willin’ to ’bey orders? I tell you, Katy, I’s be’n allus a fust-class creeper, ain’t I?”
“Yes, tolerable,” surlily assented the person called Fink. Then he mused for a moment, still wearing a surly air.
He was a rough backwoodsman, dressed in the rough backwoods style, in coarse jeans, coon-skin cap and heavy boots. He wore a belt, in which were a pair of wicked-looking revolvers, a small coil of stout cord, and an ugly knife. His countenance was sinister in the extreme, and denoted he was a slave to his passions, which were very violent. The cord was for the purpose of binding prisoners.
Prisoners? Yes; the man Fink was a desperado. At the time of this story (during the early settling of Arkansas), in addition to the hostile Indians, were a race more feared, more subtle and dangerous—robbers and cut-throats, united in bands for purposes of plunder. He was the second officer of one of these bands.
“Cato, I’ve got a job fur yer,” he said, looking up.
“Hi, Mars’r Fink; show ’em up; I’s allus ready,” replied the negro.