The bee-hunter rose from the log and drawing his knife, dropped on his knee, and began to skin the bear as if he thought he owned it.
"You needn't bother about skinning it for us," I said, "we're quite satisfied that you killed it."
The man eyed me. "This bear belongs to me, if ye want to know," he said.
"How is it your bear?" Coonskin asked, when he came to announce breakfast. "You shot it, but in our cabin."
"That don't make no difference, and I don't intend arguing the question," came the positive retort; "I say he's mine—who says he hain't?"
I suddenly felt a bee in my bonnet. "The 'ayes' have it," I said.
That stopped the debate, but I could see blood in Coonskin's eye when he ushered us to breakfast. Before we had finished, my nervy valet asked our guest if he played poker. "Ya-a-as, some," the hunter drawled. "If there's money in it, I'll jine ye in a game."
larger
