"Mr.
T-o-o-be!" he called, feebly, and the wavering echoes of his voice came
back to him mingled with an ominous sound. "Oh, Lordy! what is that?" he
stammered. He sank to the ground, grabbing wildly for his gun. "It's a
cougar! I hear him trompin' up from the creek! It's a c-cougar! He's
c-comin' closter! Oh, Lordy!"
"Hello, Bud," called Mrs. Cullum, cheerily. She slipped from the saddle as
she spoke and caught the half-fainting snipe-hunter in her motherly arms.
"Ain't you 'shamed of yourse'f to let a passel o' no-'count men fool you
this-a-way?" she demanded, sternly, when he had somewhat recovered himself.
"Get up behind me. I'm goin' to take you to Mis' Bishop's, where you
belong. No, don't you dassen to tech any o' that trash!"
Mr. Hines, feeling very humble and abashed, climbed up behind her, and they
rode away, leaving the snipe--hunting gear, including Sid Northcutt's
valuable rifle, on the edge of the gully.
She left him at Bishop's, charging him to swallow before going to bed a
"dost" of the home-brewed chill medicine from a squat bottle she handed
him.
"He cert'n'y is weaker'n stump-water," she murmured, as she turned her
horse's head; "but he's sickly an' consumpted, an' he's jest about the age
my Bud would of been if he'd lived.
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