“I am not satisfied with that explanation. I would like to know what sort of stuff you ‘mought’ be made of now,” said Somers, imitating the speech of his companion.
“I’m a Texican. I was born in the woods, nussed on hickory nuts, and turned out to paster in a cane-brake. When I kim of age I fed on gunpowder, and druv’ four alligators, four in hand, hitched to a sulky. That’s what’s the matter. Don’t you know now what sort of stuff I mought be made of?”
“Slang and brag, I should say, were the principal ingredients in your composition. You have insulted me.”
“I ax yer pardon; put up yer shooter.”
Somers did so, but very reluctantly. It was only postponing his mission; though the discovery that his companion was a coward at heart, in spite of his words, and in spite of the liberal display of arms about him, led him to hope that he might dispose of him in some better way than shooting him.
“I ax yer pardon; that’s what a Texican does when he finds he mought be in the wrong.”
“Very well. Now, if we can’t talk without quarrelling, I will keep a little in the rear.”
“Jest as you say, Somers.”
They rode along in silence for a time, till they reached a house much superior to most of those they had seen on the road, at which Skinley halted.
“I’m sufferin’ for my bitters, Somers,” said the Texan, as he reined in his steed.