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He’s over a hundred years old, for my dad says he seed him, an’ an Injun before dad’s time told him about him. They are all skeered t’ death o’ him. An’ I don’t blame ’em. He’s a shore enough hant and them tha’ houn’s o’ his’n is devils in wolf skins. Jumping Gehoosaphats, ef they shed ever cut my trail I reckon I’d just lay right down an’ die,” and Big Pete actually shuddered at the possibility.
“He may come back,” I suggested. “Not he,” said Pete. “He’s too stuck up for that. When he wants more, them tha’ black demons and that voodoo bird of his’n will get ’em for him, and he’s a hanging his long legs off’ner a rock some whar smoking a long cigar.” “Dod rot him,” growled Pete. “Why couldn’t he leave a piece of hide to carry the meat in and the stomach to cook it in?
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