“Ain’t a goin’ to do anythin’ o’ the sort,” coolly responded the hunter, as he drew the sharp edge of his blade along the belly of the prostrate steed. “You kin go on if ye like, Mister Calhoun; but Zeb Stump don’t start till he packs the hide of this hyur stellyun on the krupper o’ his old maar. Thet he don’t.”
“Come, Zeb; what’s the use of talking about my going back by myself? You know I can’t find my way?”
“That air like enough. I didn’t say ye ked.”
“Look here, you obstinate old case! Time’s precious to me just at this minute. It ’ll take you a full half-hour to skin the horse.”
“Not twenty minutes.”
“Well, say twenty minutes. Now, twenty minutes are of more importance to me than a five-dollar bill. You say that’s the value of the skin? Leave it behind; and I agree to make good the amount.”
“Wal—that air durned gin’rous, I admit—dog-goned gin’rous. But I mussent except yur offer. It ’ud be a mean trick o’ me—mean enuf for a yeller-bellied Mexikin—to take yur money for sech a sarvice as thet: the more so es I ain’t no stranger to ye, an myself a goin’ the same road. On the t’other hand, I kan’t afford to lose the five dollars’ worth o’ hoss-hide which ud be rotten as punk—to say nuthin’ o’ it’s bein’ tored into skreeds by the buzzarts and coyoats—afore I mout find a chance to kum this way agin.”
“’Tis very provoking! What am I to do?”
“You air in a hurry? Wal—I’m sorry to discommerdate ye. But—stay! Thur’s no reezun for yur waitin’ on me. Thur’s nuthin’ to hinder ye from findin’ yur way to the waggon. Ye see that tree stannin’ up agin the sky-line—the tall poplar yonner?”
“I do.”