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"The cussed thing wur nearly as stinkin' as t'other, but it wur die dog buzzart or calf so I skinned the buzzart." "And ate it?" inquired an impatient listener. "No-o," slowly drawled Rube, apparently "miffed" at being thus interrupted. "It ate me." The laugh that followed this retort restored the old trapper to good humour again. "Did you go it raw, Rube?" asked one of the hunters.
"I'd jest spied it when you spoke o' giein out. Whar thar's hills, thar's a likelihood o' streams. Sposin', Frank, you stay hyar, whiles I make tracks torst them. They look like they wa'n't mor'n ten miles off anyhow. I ked easy get back by the mornin'. D'ye think ye kin hold out thet long by swallerin' a bit o' the buzzart?" "I think I could hold out that long as well without it.
Ef we air to be rubbed out, it'll be by the chokin' o' thirst, and not the gripin' o' hunger. What durned fools we've been, not to a-thinked o' 't afore! but who'd iver think o' eatin' turkey buzzart? Wall, it's die dog or swaller the hatchet; so onpalatable as thar flesh may be, hyar goes to make a meal o' it!" While speaking, he has carried the gun to his shoulder.
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