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Fer, as I tol' you, my boy, Jim is the shootin'es' feller on this crick, I reckon, 'cept ONE, an', stranger, that's ME! A drove of lean cattle were swinging easily over Black Mountain, and behind them came a big man with wild black hair and a bushy beard.
Fer, while the gal hain't got hide o' kith or kin, thar air two fellers up hyeh sorter lookin' atter Rosie; an' one of 'em is the shootin'es' man on this crick, I reckon, 'cept one; an', stranger, that's t'other. Rosie kep' her mouth shet fer a long while; an' I reckon as how the feller 'lowed she wasn't goin' to tell.
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