“This!” exclaimed Hiram; “why, this is Judge Temple's dog Brave. Take care, Leather-Stocking, and don't make an enemy of the Judge. I hope you haven't harmed the animal?”
“Look for yourself, Mr. Doolittle,” said Natty, drawing his knife from his girdle, and wiping it in a knowing manner, once or twice across his garment of buckskin; “does his throat look as if I had cut it with this knife?”
“It is dreadfully torn! it's an awful wound—no knife ever did this deed. Who could have done it?”
“The painters behind you, squire.”
“Painters!” echoed Hiram, whirling on his heel with an agility that would have done credit to a dancing' master.
“Be easy, man,” said Natty; “there's two of the venomous things; but the dog finished one, and I have fastened the other's jaws for her; so don't be frightened, squire; they won't hurt you.”
“And where's the deer?” cried Hiram, staring about him with a bewildered air.
“Anan? deer!” repeated Natty. “Sartain; an't there venison here, or didn't you kill a buck?”
“What! when the law forbids the thing, squire!” said the old hunter, “I hope there's no law agin' killing the painters.”
“No! there's a bounty on the scalps—but—will your dogs hunt painters, Natty?”