I had fallen into a sort of reverie. My mind was occupied with the incidents I had just witnessed, when a voice, which I recognised as that of old Rube, roused me from my abstraction.
“Look’ee hyur, boyees! Tain’t of’n as ole Rube wastes lead, but I’ll beat that Injun’s shot, or ’ee may cut my ears off.”
A loud laugh hailed this allusion of the trapper to his ears, which, as we have observed, were already gone; and so closely had they been trimmed that nothing remained for either knife or shears to accomplish.
“How will you do it, Rube?” cried one of the hunters; “shoot the mark off a yer own head?”
“I’ll let ’ee see if ’ee wait,” replied Rube, stalking up to a tree, and taking from its rest a long, heavy rifle, which he proceeded to wipe out with care.
The attention of all was now turned to the manoeuvres of the old trapper. Conjecture was busy as to his designs. What feat could he perform that would eclipse the one just witnessed? No one could guess.
“I’ll beat it,” continued he, muttering, as he loaded his piece, “or ’ee may chop the little finger off ole Rube’s right paw.”
Another peal of laughter followed, as all perceived that this was the finger that was wanting.
“’Ee—es,” continued he, looking at the faces that were around him, “’ee may scalp me if I don’t.”
This last remark elicited fresh roars of laughter; for although the cat-skin was closely drawn upon his head, all present knew that old Rube was minus his scalp.