"Pompey, there war a nigger nigh onto goin' under about two minnits ago, an' so yer had better not be axing fool's questions. How d'yer s'pose I knowed whose hoss that war? The durned red niggers cleaned me out, root an' branch, 'bout a week ago, an' cum clost to rizin' my ha'r. I've bin trampin' on the back trace, an' when I cum acrost a animile handy I wouldn't 'a' bin Bill Blaze ef I hadn't gone fur him—'special arter what I met to-night. What yer doin' here? Last time I see'd yer yer war on the Big Red with Cap. Le Compte."
"Hi! You t'ink so! Somebody mite 'a' bin hurt ef I hadn't'a' knowed it was you when you talk; but dunno 'bout it's bein' dis chile. I's not bin with dem Hudson Bay fellers sence dat winter when you got so bad bit up wid dat grizzly. I's on my own hook now, an' takin' care o' Mass'r Winkle. An' bress my soul, dar he am now!"
The speaker, who was an African of the unmitigated breed, caught sight of Winkle standing upon the opposite side of the fire.
"Mass'r, dis yere am Mister Bill Blaze. I knows 'um well, an' he's a fust-rate feller, ef he war a-goin' fur yer hoss. Nussed him up when he war tore all into leetle bits."
Winkle appeared to be somewhat recalled to life by this address of his sable attendant; and turning, looked the man thus recommended full in the face.
Blaze, once introduced, did not stand upon ceremony; but advanced across the intervening space, extending his hand as he walked.
"Yes siree, I'm that identikle individool, Bill Blaze, jist frum the mountings! I kin trap more beaver, eat more buffler, steal more hoss-flesh an' raise more top-knots than any man frum here to the Columby River. I'm a blarsted bulldorg an' a high-heeled snolligoster. I kin lick my weight in b'ar's meat, an' my name's Bill Blaze. Waugh!"
"I've heard that name before," said Winkle, taking the offered hand, "and you're welcome. I'm a little abroad just now, and don't feel like my own self—for I've seen a ghost."
"Thunder! You look kinder skeery; but ghosts ain't nothin'. I've seen more ghosts than any man a-trampin'. Had 'em for pards onc't. Fact. Three on 'em an' myself camped in a shanty down on Black-horn Lick fur nigh onto a month. There war a woman with her throat cut, an' a half-breed with his brains stove in, an' his skulp a-danglin' ahind, an' a black b'ar with his back bruk. The way they tore around that 'ere shanty war nasty. Why, down thar on that thar Lick, ghosts war as plenty as ha'rs in yer head. An' yell? The catamounts got so 'shamed of their own mule music they packed their trapsacks an' got. Yer couldn't find a painter nigher ner fifty mile. No, stranger; don't talk to Bill Blaze about ghosts, fur he's bin thar!"
Winkle appeared to be little moved by this address. His face still bore marks of evident perturbation, and there was an absence of mind depicted in his manner and actions that seemed to strike Blaze as rather unwarranted. To some remark made he answered rather shortly; but he accepted of the hospitalities offered him, so far at least as to seat himself by the fire, and, in default of other entertainment, entertained himself by the sound of his own voice.