“That, young fellur, justs rests on what ’ee ’ud call squar. Do ’ee see these hyur nicks: them standin’ sep’rate?”
And the trapper pointed to a row of small notches cut in the stock of his rifle.
“Ay, ay!” cried several men in reply. “Thur’s five o’ ’em, ain’t thur?”
“One, two, three; yes, five.”
“Them’s Rapahoes!”
Rube’s story was ended.