“You bet I will ef yer don’t dust around lively. Time’s scarce; move on!”
“Dat I will; dat I will!” surlily answered Cato. “Mars’r Eben, dis niggah done go on. Call ’em all ’long! brung de hull pack! skreech an’ yell all yer want! it don’t make no difference ter Cato!”
“You threaten, do yer, yer black rascal? Well, this I’ll say: ef yer play us false, watch out fur a bullet.”
“Golly, Mars’r Eben! dis chile nebber cheats. Fo’ shore I find um trail berry soon.”
“Well, what d’ye stand there for? Curse yer, why don’t yer go on?”
“Move on! Move on!” came in a high, warning voice close by, in the opposite direction from where the party were grouped, watching their movements. It proceeded from a dense thicket near at hand.
“Hullo! who said that?” asked Eben, in surprise. The negro turned yellow, and his teeth chattered with fear. He was thoroughly alarmed.
“Golly, Mars’r Eben!” he stammered, staring toward the thicket. “Did yer hear dat?”
“Of course I heard it! what was it?”
“Oh, golly, mars’r! dis chile’s dead an’ done buried.”