“Nope,” sez I. “We’re just out here for a little huntin’; an’ Olaf got us to look after his stuff for a few days while he went visitin’.”
“Wasn’t the’ any huntin’ closer to home?” sez Badger-face, a little sarcastic.
“Not the kind o’ huntin’ we prefer,” sez Horace, sort o’ dreamy like.
Badger-face drilled a look into Horace, who had put on his most no-account expression. “What’s your favorite game,” sez he, “snow-shoe rabbits?”
“Oh, no,” drawled Horace as if he felt sleepy, “silver-tips an’ humans is our favorite game; but o’ course the spring is the best time—for silver-tips.”
“Where might you be from?” asked Badger-face.
“I might be from Arizona or Texas,” sez Horace; “but I ain’t. I’m a regular dude. Can’t you tell by my whiskers?”
Badger-face was so puzzled when Horace gave a little rat-laugh that I had to laugh too; and ya could see the blood come into Badger’s cheeks, but still, he couldn’t savvy this sort o’ game, so he couldn’t quite figure out how to start anything.
Horace had practiced what he called a muscle-lift, which he said he used to see the other kids do on parallel bars; and now he slipped to the ground an’ tightened his cinch an’ cussed about the way it had come loose, as natural as life. Then he put one hand on the horn an’ the other on the cantle an’ drew himself up slow. He kept on pushin’ himself after his breast had come above the saddle until he rested at arm’s length. Then he flipped his right leg over, an’ took his seat as though it was nothin’ at all. Any one could see it was a genuwine stunt, though it was of no earthly use to a ridin’ man.
Now, just because the’ was no sense to this antic, it made more of an impression on Badger-face than the fanciest sort o’ shootin’ or ropin’ would ’a’ done; an’ he puzzled over what sort of a speciment Horace might be, till it showed in his face.