Cato, who had been grinning from ear to ear during the discussion, now desired to be left to himself, assuring them he would soon find a trail on which to fasten. Then all would be easy.
“Wal, go on!” said Sol, impatiently. “No one’s hindering yer.”
Cato answered by gliding off into the “bush” at a rapid, sneaking shamble. Eben followed him closely. The negro turned, half angrily:
“Mars’r Eben, ef dis yer niggah’s gwine ter pick out de trail, he must be left ter hisself, shore. Kain’t work when any pusson’s ’round.”
“I’ve got orders ter foller yer,” answered the young man.
Cato dropped his hands to his sides.
“Wal, den, dis yer niggah’s done give up de job, fo’ shore. Kain’t do nuthin’ while pusson’s round tramping up de ground. It must be cl’ar.”
The young man laid his hand significantly on his gun.
“Go on!” he sternly commanded.
“Golly, Mars’r Eben! yer don’t shoot dis yer niggah?”