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Updated: May 4, 2025
My Fort is the grate moral show bizniss & ritin choice famerly literatoor for the noospapers. That's what's the matter with ME. &c., &c., &c. So I mite go on to a indefnit extent. Twict I've endeverd to do things which thay wasn't my Fort. The fust time was when I undertuk to lick a owdashus cuss who cut a hole in my tent & krawld threw.
He went to the Economy post office and on the back of a circular that he found in the waste basket he wrote another note: "Pat. This is blood money an' I can't kep it. I didunt no when I undertuk the job wot kind of a job it was. Thers only one way fur yoo to kep yur hid saf, an that is to tel the trooth abot wot hapuned. If yoo ar wiling to tel the trooth put a leter heer sayin so.
He gave it to us as follows: "Wal, strengers, about ten winters agone, I wur travellin' from Bent's Fort on the Arkensaw, to 'Laramie on the Platte, all alone by myself. I had undertuk the journey on some business for Bill Bent no matter now what.
"Oh, no you don't, Clorindy," he replied, "you hain't got so old yet but what you can hold your own with the youngest of 'em when there's a fancy mulatter chap round." "What doz yer mean by ole!" cried Clorinda. "I tells you what, Caleb Benson, ef yer only undertuk this job to be a aggrawatin' and insultin' me, you and I's done! I ain't gwine to stand sich trash, now I tells yer!
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