Nick saw a surprised, honest-looking face—that of a hardy backwoodsman—and he caught a glimpse of the rifle that the man held loosely in the hollow of his arm.
The backwoodsman saw a well-dressed tenderfoot,[{21}] whose coat was torn by the panther’s claw, whose face was grimed with dirt and smeared with blood.
“By golly, stranger,” said the backwoodsman, “you’re not jest fit to enter a beauty show—not but what ye may be a slick-lookin’ chap when yer face is washed.”
The detective laughed heartily.
“I reckon, pard,” he said, “that you saved my life.”
“Reckon I did,” returned the other quietly; “but I come dum close to killin’ you to do it.”
“I felt your bullet hiss past my face.”
“So? Should ha’ thought that mought have scared ye to death.”
“Oh, no, I’m used to things like that.”
“You don’t say!”