“Plenty dirty,” observed Cayuse, whose disgust at Nomad’s slovenly ways was proverbial among the pards.
Nomad tied up one end of the sleeve, and then began filling it with sand.
“Heap fool war club—kill ’im easy?” asked Cayuse.
“Naw, I hain’t goin’ ter kill ’im easy; I’m goin’ ter fool ’im ’th this an’ then kill ’im good an’ hard ’th this ole Nancy rifle er mine.”
“Mebbeso him think rattlesnake,” suggested Cayuse.
“Mebbeso him think ’tis er fool Injun,” retorted Nomad, imitating Cayuse’s voice, manner, and words as he kept on with his work.
Little Cayuse improved the time in brushing the sand out of his raven-black hair and reëstablishing his shining braids and feather.
“Thar, Cayuse, thar’s ther dyed-in-ther-wool ketchumnappin’,” announced Nomad.
“Wuh? All same tie um round mouth make um stop holler.”
“You mean, is it a gag?”