it all of a suddent an’ let fly at a big bum-bee that wos passin’, yellin’ out that it wos the finest wot he had iver seed.  He missed the bee, of coorse, ‘cause it wos a flyin’ shot, he said, but he sent the whole charge right into Martin’s back—­Martin was my comrade’s name.  By good luck Martin had on a thick leather coat, so the shot niver got the length o’ his skin.”

“One day I noticed that the natter-list had stuffed small corks into the muzzles of all the six barrels of his revolver.  I wondered what they wos for, but he wos al’ays doin’ sich queer things that I soon forgot it.  ‘Maybe,’ thought I, jist before it went out o’ my mind—­’maybe he thinks that’ll stop the pistol from goin’ off by accident;’ for ye must know he’d let it off three times the first day by accident, an’ well-nigh blowed off his leg the last time, only the shot lodged in the back o’ a big toad he’d jist stuffed into his breeches pocket.  Well, soon after we shot a buffalo bull, so when it fell, off he jumps from his horse an’ runs up to it.  So did I, for I wasn’t sure the beast was dead, an’ I had jist got up when it rose an’ rushed at the natter-list.

“‘Out o’ the way,’ I yelled, for my rifle was empty; but he didn’t move, so I rushed for’ard an’ drew the pistol out o’ his belt and let fly in the bull’s ribs jist as it ran the poor man down.  Martin came up that moment an’ put a ball through its heart, an’ then we went to pick up the natter-list.  He came to in a little, an’ the first thing he said was, ‘Where’s my revolver?’ When I gave it to him he looked at it, an’ said with a solemcholy shake o’ the head, ’There’s a whole barrel-full lost!’ It turned out that he had taken to usin’ the barrels for bottles to hold things in, but he forgot to draw the charges, so sure enough I had fired a charge o’ bum-bees an’ beetles an’ small shot into the buffalo!

“But that’s not what I wos goin’ to tell ye yit.  We corned to a part o’ the plains where we wos well-nigh starved for want o’ game, an’ the natter-list got so thin that ye could a’most see through him, so I offered to kill my horse, an’ cut it up for meat; but you niver saw sich a face he made.  ‘I’d rather die first,’ says he, ‘than eat it;’ so we didn’t kill it.  But that very day Martin got a shot at a wild horse an’ killed it.  The natter-list was down in the bed o’ a creek at the time gropin’ for creepers, an’ he didn’t see it.

“‘He’ll niver eat it,’ says Martin.

“‘That’s true,’ says I.

“‘Let’s tell him it’s a buffalo,’ says he.

“‘That would be tellin’ a lie,’ says I.

“So we stood lookin’ at each other, not knowin’ what to do.

“‘I’ll tell ye what,’ cries Martin; ’we’ll cut it up, and take the meat into camp an’ cook it without sayin’ a word.’

“‘Done,’ says I, ‘that’s it;’ for ye must know the poor critter wos no judge o’ meat.  He couldn’t tell one kind from another, an’ he niver axed questions.  In fact he niver a’most spoke to us all the trip.  Well, we cut up the horse, an’ carried the flesh an’ marrowbones into camp, takin’ care to leave the hoofs an’ skin behind, an’ sot to work an’ roasted steaks an’ marrowbones.”