A laugh greeted his answer to the hunter’s question.
“Any o’ us,” continued the speaker, “could plug the persimmon that a way. But thar’s a mighty heap o’ diff’rence when you squints thro’ hind-sights at a girl like yon.”
“Ye’re right, Dick,” said another hunter; “it makes a fellow feel queery about the jeints.”
“Holy vistment! An’ wasn’t she a raal beauty?” exclaimed the little Irishman, with an earnestness in his manner that set the trappers roaring again.
“Pish!” cried Rube, who had now finished loading, “yur a set o’ channering fools; that’s what ’ee ur. Who palavered about a post? I’ve got an ole squaw as well’s the Injun. She’ll hold the thing for this child—she will.”
“Squaw! You a squaw?”
“Yes, hoss; I has a squaw I wudn’t swop for two o’ his’n. I’ll make tracks an’ fetch the old ’oman. Shet up yur heads, an’ wait, will ye?”
So saying, the smoky old sinner shouldered his rifle, and walked off into the woods.
I, in common with others, late comers, who were strangers to Rube, began to think that he had an “old ’oman.” There were no females to be seen about the encampment, but perhaps she was hid away in the woods. The trappers, however, who knew him, seemed to understand that the old fellow had some trick in his brain; and that, it appeared, was no new thing for him.
We were not kept long in suspense. In a few minutes Rube was seen returning, and by his side the “old ’oman,” in the shape of a long, lank, bare-ribbed, high-boned mustang, that turned out on close inspection to be a mare! This, then, was Rube’s squaw, and she was not at all unlike him, excepting the ears. She was long-eared, in common with all her race: the same as that upon which Quixote charged the windmill. The long ears caused her to look mulish, but it was only in appearance; she was a pure mustang when you examined her attentively. She seemed to have been at an earlier period of that dun-yellowish colour known as “clay-bank,” a common colour among Mexican horses; but time and scars had somewhat metamorphosed her, and grey hairs predominated all over, particularly about the head and neck. These parts were covered with a dirty grizzle of mixed hues. She was badly wind-broken; and at stated intervals of several minutes each, her back, from the spasmodic action of the lungs, heaved up with a jerk, as though she were trying to kick with her hind legs, and couldn’t. She was as thin as a rail, and carried her head below the level of her shoulders; but there was something in the twinkle of her solitary eye (for she had but one), that told you she had no intention of giving up for a long time to come. She was evidently game to the backbone.