“I say, Mr. Sneak,” observed Joe, with an eager voice, as his pony trotted along rather roughly through the wild gooseberry bushes, and often stumbled over the decayed logs that lay about.
“What do you want, stranger?” replied Sneak, slackening his gait until he fell back alongside of Joe.
“I only wanted to know if you ever killed a bear before,” said Joe, drawing an easy breath as Pete fell into a comfortable walk.
“Dod rot it, I hain’t killed this one yit,” said Sneak.
“I didn’t mean any offence,” said Joe.
“What makes you think you have given any?”
“Because you said dod rot it.”
“I nearly always say so—I’ve said so so often that I can’t help it. But now, as we are on the right footing, I can tell you that I wintered once in Arkansaw, and that’s enough to let you know I’m no greenhorn, no how you can fix it. And moreover, I tell you, if old Boone wasn’t here hisself, I’d kill this bar as sure as a gun, and my gun is as sure as a streak of lightning run into a barrel of gunpowder;” and as he spoke he threw up his heavy gun and saluted the iron with his lips.
“Is your’s a rifle?” inquired Joe, to prolong the conversation, his companion showing symptoms of a disposition to fall into his habit of going ahead again.
“Sartainly! Does anybody, I wonder, expect to do any thing with a shot-gun in sich a place as this?”