And the old trapper accompanied the remark with a wild, reckless laugh.
The rent of the bullet, and the blood upon Garey’s shoulder, now fell under his eye, and suddenly changing countenance, he exclaimed—
“By the ’tarnal! yur hit, Bill? Speak, boyee!”
“It’s nothin’,” promptly replied Garey—“nothin’; only a grease. I don’t feel it.”
“Yur sure?”
“Sartin sure.”
“By the livin catamount!” exclaimed Rube, in a serious tone, “we can’t stan this no longer. What’s to be done, Billee? Think, boy!”
“We must make a burst for it,” replied Garey; “it’s our only chance.”
“Tur no use,” said Rube, with a doubtful shake of the head. “The young fellur mout git clur; but for you ’n me thur’s not the shaddy o’ a chance. They’d catch up wi’ the ole mar in the flappin’ o’ a beaver’s tail, an yur hoss ain’t none o’ the sooplest. Tur no use.”
“I tell you it are, Rube,” replied Garey impatiently. “You mount the white hoss—he’s fast enough—an let the mar slide; or you take mine, an I’ll back whitey. We mayent get clar altogether; but we’ll string the niggers out on the parairy, an take them one arter another. It’s better than stannin’ hyar to be shot down like buffler in a penn. What do you think, capt’n?” added he, addressing himself to me.