Clemens looked at the miner. “Maybe you’re right. Anyhow, the other half would be too sick to howl,” he said hopefully.
“If you owned the tail you could cut that off. Or if you owned one of the ears, say,” explained the man with the beard. “I don’t reckon your pardner could kick on that. But if you killed half the dog the rest of it would sure die. Any one can see that, Sam. You sure made a fool remark that time.”
“Yes, I can see now you’re right,” the lank man agreed. “I must be out of my head. Probably the altitude.”[[9]]
[9] Mark Twain afterwards made use of this in one of his books. A good many bits of his humour can be traced to the days when he was a youth in Nevada.—W. M. R.
“O’ course you could buy the other fellow’s interest in the dog and then kill it,” pursued the literal-minded one. “No objection to that, I reckon.”
“Yes, I could do that—if someone would lend me the money. But I wouldn’t, come to think of it.” Clemens brightened up till he was almost cheerful. “I’d give the dog to you, Hank.”
Attracted by the lank stranger’s dry humour, Hugh reached for a three-cornered stool and started to sit down. He changed his mind abruptly. Out of a saloon next door, named the Glory Hole from Aurora’s famous treasure lode, a big bearded man in an army coat came slouching. It was the first time Hugh had seen Sam Dutch since their meeting at the Crystal Palace.
The boy stood, slightly crouched, his right thumb hitched lightly in the pocket of his trousers. Every nerve was taut as a fiddle string. The eyes of McClintock, grown hard as quartz, did not waver a hair’s breadth.