“I reckon I might an’ I reckon I do if I kin find any durn thing fer t’ shoot,” said Gus, easily falling into the native vernacular.
The man approached and the boy quickly observed that the pocket of the loose coat, worn even this hot day, bulged perceptibly, and the man put his hand within it. He showed an interest in the shotgun and extended his hand.
“Where you get so fine gun, eh?” he questioned.
“Man give her t’ me fer beatin’ him at shootin’.” This was literally true, the said man being Mr. Grier. “He’s a sportin’ feller, but he don’t shoot no more. Hain’t seen him round these here parts fer two year.”
The fellow took the fowling-piece and looked it over. He said:
“I buy her, eh?”
“You couldn’t buy her if you had her heft in gold,” said the boy. “An’ you couldn’t shoot her, anyway—not to hit anything. Could you get a bird with her goin’ like a bullet through these pine trees? Shucks! I kin.”
“No! Yes? I get you shoot for me, eh?” handing back the gun.
“Shoot fer you? How?”
“You don’t like law policemans, eh?”