“‘Bangs!’ goes his bistol; unt I am deadt.”
“Wow! But you’re livin’ yit.”
“Maype so-o; aber vor a liddle vhiles I tond’t know noddings. Vhen I haf gome pack py mineselluf der goldt nuggedts iss gone, unt he iss gone, unt I am laying on der groundt yoost like a deadt mans. Now, vot do you t’ink uff dot?”
“Thet he seen ye, Schnitz, an’ laid fer ye.”
“Idt iss yoost vot I t’inks.”
“You are sure this man who shot you was Jackson Dane?” the scout queried.
“Yaw! I seen him.”
“Ye didn’t try ter foller him, after thet?” asked the trapper.
“Afdher dot? Himmel! Vhen I am shoodedt py der headt in, unt am pleeding like a stuck pigs? Pesites, I am inkinscious vhen he gidts avay, unt tond’t know vhere he haf gone.”
“No, o’ course, ye couldn’t well follered him, under ther sarcumstances.”