“Wal, it’s about a wumman.”
“A woman! Why, Walt Wilder, I should have supposed that would be the farthest thing from your thoughts, especially a such a time and in such a place as this.”
“True it shed, as ye say. For all that, ef this chile don’t misunnerstan’ the sign, a wumman ain’t the furrest thing from yur thoughts, at the same time an’ place.”
The significance of the observation causes the colour to start to the cheeks of the young prairie merchant, late so pale. He stammers out an evasive rejoinder,—
“Well, Walt; you wish to have a talk with me. I’m ready to hear what you have to say. Go on! I’m listening.”
“Wal, Frank, I’m in a sort o’ a quandary wi’ a critter as wears pettikotes, an’ I want a word o’ advice from ye. You’re more practised in thar ways than me. Though a good score o’ year older than yurself, I hain’t hed much to do wi’ weemen, ’ceptin’ Injun squaws an’ now an’ agin a yeller gurl down by San Antone. But them scrapes wan’t nothin’ like thet Walt Wilder heve got inter now.”
“A scrape! What sort of a scrape? I hope you haven’t—”
“Ye needn’t talk o’ hope, Frank Hamersley. The thing air past hopin’, an’ past prayin’ for. Ef this chile know anythin’ o’ the signs o’ love, he has goed a good ways along its trail. Yis, sir-ee; too fur to think o’ takin’ the backtrack.”
“On that trail, indeed?”
“Thet same; whar Cyubit sots his little feet, ’ithout neer a moccasin on ’em. Yis, kummerade, Walt Wilder, for oncest in in his kureer, air in a difeequelty; an’ thet difeequelty air bein’ fool enuf to fall in love—the which he hez dun, sure, sartin.”