“Kin’ o’ sorry ’bout the parson. It’ll make again us up North,” continued Sam.
“Ya-as, that’s so, fur a fac’,” acquiesced Dave.
“An’ what a hunter he was, shoot the wink off yer eye! O, Lord, warn’t he chock full o’ grit. Min’ the time he says to Bill, ‘you ride fas’, but Death’ll cotch you, an’ after death the judgmen’!” queried Sam.
Dan chuckled at the recollection. “Got the dead wood on Bill then, I reckon.”
“You bet!” replied Sam, with emphasis.
“Dear, dear, ain’t it turrible fur’t have’t do a man like that mean!” continued Dan.
“But ’twould be turrible to lost the money. I can’t tell which would be turriblest!”
“That’s a fac’.”
“Who’s that fool gabin’?” came in a fierce whisper from the front. Then followed silence.
They had emerged from the swamp and were riding through a high, fertile region of farming lands. The moon was rolling high in the heavens, while far toward the east was a faint lightning, the promise of dawn.