“You’ve got to die!” he said, sternly. “All dogs have their day.”
The creole did not reply, but fiercely eyed the speaker.
“You’ve made the earth run with innocent blood,” continued Doc, “an’ hed it not been fur ye, he whom we just buried, would hev still been livin’. Hev ye got any thin’ to say afore ye go?”
There was no reply, and the hunter turned to our friends.
“By whose hand shall the dog die?” he asked.
A painful silence followed, and at length the hunter stepped aside, and picked up a handful of small stones. He then turned to our hero:
“How many, Bob?”
“Twenty.”
“What’s yer guess, Swamp Oak?”
The Peoria indicated fifteen with his fingers, and Nehonesto twenty-five.