“Wal, ef ye so weesh it, on let’s go. Your the chief of this party an’ kin command. For myself I’m only thinkin’ or them poor, tired critters.”
The hunter points to the horses, that for the last hour have been dragging their limbs along like bees honey-laden.
“To say nothin’ o’ ourselves,” he adds, “though for my part I’m riddy to keep on to the Rio Grand, if you insist on goin’ thar.”
Notwithstanding his professed willingness, there is something in the tone of Sime’s speech which contradicts it—just a soupçon of vexation.
Perceiving it, Clancy makes rejoinder with the delicacy becoming a gentleman. Though against his will and better judgment, his habitual belief in, and reliance on Woodley’s wisdom, puts an end to his opposition; and in fine yielding, he says:—
“Very well; we shall stay. After all, it can’t make much difference. A truce to my presentiments. I’ve often had such before, that came to nothing. Hoping it may be the same now, we’ll spend our night this side the river.”
“All right,” responds the backwoodsman. “An’ since it’s decided we’re to stay, I see no reezun why we shedn’t make ourselves as comfortable as may be unner the circumstances. As it so chances, I know this hyar San Saba bottom ’most as well as that o’ our ole Massissip. An’ ef my mem’ry don’t mistake, thar’s a spot not far from hyar that’ll jest suit for us to camp in. Foller me; I’ll find it.”
Saying this, he kicks his heels against the ribs of his horse, and compels the tired steed once more into reluctant motion, the rest riding after in silence.