“I hed shot a black-tail buck, an’ after kindlin’ a fire, I roasted a griskin’ o’ him, an’ ate it.
“Still thur wan’t no sign o’ the carryvan, an’ arter hangin’ the buck out o’ reach o’ the wolves, I tuk up my rifle, an’ set out to rackynoiter the neighbourhood.
“My mar bein’ some’at jaded, I let her graze away, an’ went afoot; an’ that, let me tell you, strengers, ar about the foolichest thing you kin do upon a parairy. I wan’t long afore I proved it; but I’ll kum to that by ’m by.
“Wal, I fust clomb a conside’able hill, that gin me a view beyont. Thur war a good-sized parairy layin’ torst the south an’ west. Thur wur no trees ’ceptin’ an odd cotton-wood hyur an’ thur on the hillside.
“About a mile off I seed a flock of goats—what you’d call antelopes, though goats they ur, as sure as goats is goats.
“Thur waunt no kiver near them—not a stick, for the parairy wur as bar as yur hand; so I seed, at a glimp, it ’ud be no use a tryin’ to approach, unless I tuk some plan to decoy the critters.
“I soon thort o’ a dodge, an’ went back to camp for my blanket, which wur a red Mackinaw. This I knew ’ud be the very thing to fool the goats with, an’ I set out torst them.
“For the fust half-a-mile or so, I carried the blanket under my arm. Then I spread it out, an’ walked behind it until I wur ’ithin three or four hundred yards o’ the animals. I kept my eye on ’em through a hole in the blanket. They wur a-growin’ scary, an’ hed begun to run about in circles; so when I seed this, I knew it wur time to stop.
“Wal, I hunkered down, an’ still keepin’ the blanket spread out afore me, I hung it upon a saplin’ that I had brought from the camp. I then stuck the saplin’ upright in the ground; an’ mind ye, it wan’t so easy to do that, for the parairy wur hard friz, an’ I hed to dig a hole wi’ my knife. Howsomdever, I got the thing rigged at last, an’ the blanket hangin’ up in front kivered my karkidge most complete. I hed nothin’ more to do but wait till the goats shed come ’ithin range o’ my shootin’-iron.
“Wal, that wan’t long. As ye all know, them goats is a mighty curious animal—as curious as weemen is—an arter runnin’ backward an’ forrard a bit, an’ tossin’ up thur heads, an’ sniffin’ the air, one o’ the fattest, a young prong-horn buck, trotted up ’ithin fifty yards o’ me.