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Updated: June 14, 2025
"I ain't lef' him more'n a minit. He sent me down hisself. One o' his cunnin' ways to get rid o' me when he's at de wust. Opium 'n whiskey, dats what gets him dis way. Bof togedder a-gwine ter kill him some dese days, 'n de opium am de wustest. For de Lord's sake some o' you gen'men cum 'n hep me till I git him quieted down."
Yesterday, allowin' to bushwhack some trooth about 'em, I waits till old Wilkins drifts over to the corral, an' then I goes projectin' 'round for facts. I works it plenty cunnin', an' sorter happens up to the old man's tepee. I calls the girl out an' puts it up I wants to see her paw a heap on some business. ""I wants to see him speshul," I says.
Ike is a ornery anamile little an' furtif mean enough to suck aigs, an' cunnin' enough to hide the shells. He hates everybody, this Ike does; an' he's as suspicious as Bill Johnson's dog, which last is that doubtful an' suspicious he shore walks sideways all his life for fear someone's goin' to kick him.
"A' daurna say yea, Bell, muckle as a' wud like, for this is an evil disease, cunnin' an' treacherous as the deevil himsel', but a' winna say nay, sae keep yir hert frae despair. "It wull be a sair fecht, but it 'ill be settled one wy or anither by sax o'clock the morn's morn.
"John McGillis, are ye a widdy or are ye not a widdy?" he challenged, as soon as he could speak. "I am, Owen Cunnin', I am," maintained John. "Thin I repate ye're the loire!" And once more they came to the proof, until Owen lay upon the ground kicking to keep his opponent off. "Will I bring ye the dhrop of whiskey, Owen?" suggested John, tenderly.
Besides Crooked Claw, thar's Bill's widow aunt, the Wild Cat she's plumb cunnin', the Wild Cat is, an' jest then bein' cel'brated among the Osages for smokin' ponies with Black B'ar, a old buck, an' smokin' Black B'ar out of his two best cayouses.
Maisie looked at the wild whirling rush of a field-battery going into action under fire. Two artillery-men stood behind her in the crowd. 'They've chucked the off lead-'orse' said one to the other. ''E's tore up awful, but they're makin' good time with the others. That lead-driver drives better nor you, Tom. See 'ow cunnin' 'e's nursin' 'is 'orse.
"Ay," said Sanders, reluctantly. "I'm dootin' I'm sair dootin' she's but a flichty, licht-hearted crittur after a'." "I had ay my suspeecions o't," said Sanders. "Ye hae kent her langer than me," said Sam'l. "Yes," said Sanders, "but there's nae gettin' at the heart o' women. Man, Sam'l, they're desperate cunnin'." "I'm dootin't; I'm sair dootin't."
"Don't you let him go, ole marse! he's one nasty, 'ceitful, lyin', white nigger as ebber libbed! He did do it, and he needn't 'ny it, not while I'm standin' here! Don't you let him go, ole marse! he's cunnin' as de debbil, and he'd run away, sure as ebber you's born! You take my 'vice and don't you let him go! he artful as ole Sam!" "Katie, Katie, Katie!" remonstrated Ishmael, in a low voice.
Throughout his wakin' hours, as I su'gests former, Bowlaigs ha'nts about the Red Light, layin' guileful an' cunnin' for invites to drink; an' he execootes besides small excursions to the O.K. Restauraw for chuck, with now an' then a brief journey to the Post Office or the New York store.
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