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Didn’t you figger out that that tha’ b’ar war the Injun or tha’ Wild Hunter who put on moccasins made o’ b’ar feet when he thought we’d foller him?” asked Pete. “Yes, I did, but I forgot—maybe that ram was the Wild Hunter himself—blame it. Nothing will astonish me in this country.” “Yes, you fergot everything, even yore head when you started to foller that tha’ ram yesterday. But I didn’t.
“All right; tha’s wha’ I mean ter do. ’Cause it hain’t a varmint natur’ to help men folks, and he done helped us, and no mistake, and left us the bulk of the b’ar too,—only took the claws, teeth and tenderloin or two for himself and pack; that is, if he be a wolf. But we will settle that if your foot will let you walk a bit.” “How far?” I asked.
I jest kept peggin’ away at them tha’ rumswattel b’ar tracks and I followed ’em right up to yonder cliff. They go on from tha’, but I left ’em last night to come over by you. Come on, we’ll pick ’em up agin.” And off he started.
“Whomsoever cud I mean but th’ Wild Hunter, and wha’s tha’ been any bullets lately but in th’ b’ar?” queried my companion. “Yes, of course,” I admitted, “but why do you suppose he cut out the bullets?” “Wal, I reckon tha’ might be right scarce and he haster be kinder sparing with them.
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