“What is wanted?”
“Dey’s trailin’ yer, Mars’r Cap’n; dey’s all in a fiah ’bout yer; dey’s gwine ter cotch yer an’ string yer up.”
“Who? What do you mean?”
“De squatters—dey’s a-huntin’ yer.”
“What! do they suspect?”
“Yas, mars’r—an’ dey ain’t fur wrong, hi, yi!” and he laughed uproariously.
“Hold your tongue, you blockhead! do you want to be discovered? How far are they away?”
“’Bout t’ree mile.”
“Are they on the trail?”
“No, sar, mars’r, no, sar. Dem fellahs kain’t foller trail—psho!” and he turned up his flat nose in contempt.