“‘You can do so now. Be quick, for the company is waiting,’ says he, pert-like.
“They all stopped talking and were looking right at me. I felt riled. ‘Darn your company. I've got to lose my scalp anyhow, and no difference to me—but to oblige you’—so I slid off as easy as if I had never been stuck.
“A hunchback boy, with little gray eyes in his head, took old Blue away.
I might never see her again, and I shouted—‘Poor Blue! Good-by, Blue!’
“The young devil snickered; I turned around mighty stern—‘Stop your laughing, you hell-cat—if I am alone, I can take you,’ and I grabbed for my knife to wade into his liver; but it was gone—gun, bullet-pouch, and pistol, like mules in a stampede.
“I stepped forward with a big fellow, with hair frizzled out like an old buffalo just before shedding time; and the people jawing worse than a cavayard of paroquets, stopped, while frizzly shouted:—
“‘Mr. Hatcher, formerly of Wapakonnetta, latterly of the Rocky Mountains.’
“Well, there I stood. Things were mighty strange, and every darned nigger of them looked so pleased like. To show them manners, I said, ‘How are you?’ and I went to bow, but chaw my last tobacco if I could, my breeches was so tight—the heat way back in the cañon had shrunk them. They were too polite to notice it, and I felt for my knife to rip the dog-goned things, but recollecting the scalp-taker was stolen, I straightens up and bowed my head. A kind-looking, smallish old gentleman, with a black coat and breeches, and a bright, cute face, and gold spectacles, walks up and pressed my hand softly.
“‘How do you do, my dear friend? I have long expected you. You cannot imagine the pleasure it gives me to meet you at home. I have watched your peregrinations in the busy, tiresome world with much interest. Sit down, sit down; take a chair,’ and he handed me one.
“I squared myself on it, but if a ten-pronged buck wasn't done sucking when I last sot on a chair, and I squirmed awhile, uneasy as a gun-shot coyote; then I jumps up and tells the old gentleman them sort of fixings didn't suit this beaver, he prefers the floor. I sets cross-legged like in camp, as easy as eating meat. I reached for my pipe—a fellow so used to it—but the devils in the cañon had cached that too.
“‘You wish to smoke, Mr. Hatcher?—we will have cigars. Here!’ he called to an imp near him, ‘some cigars.’