e broke through a thick bunch o' spruce;
'n' we both nigh fell dead to see old Warry sawin' at th' throat o' a
doe, tryin' to 'pear 's natural 's if he'd never done nothin' else but
kill 'n' dress deer. Mebbe Erne 'n' me wan't pleased none th' old man
had made a kill!

"Erne was ahead; 'n' just as Warry rose up from th' throat-cuttin', Erne
dropped into th' weeds 'n' rolled 'n' 'round holdin' o' his stummick,
laughin' fit t' kill his fool self, till I thought he'd gone crazy. Then
my eye lit on th' fore quarters o' th' doe, 'n' I guess I throwed more
twists laughin' than Erne did--_for that there doe was shy a leg_, hadn't
but three legs; nigh fore leg gone midway 'tween knee and dewclaw, shot
off 'n' healed up Godo'mi'ty knows when.

"Warry? He didn't seem t' care none, too darned glad t' get anythin'
shape o' a deer."

That same evening one of us asked Con if he had ever run across any other
mutilated game, recovered of old wounds.

"Sure!" he answered, "'specially once when I was almighty glad to git it,
'n' a whole lot gladder still that nobody was 'round t' see 'n' know 'n'
tell just what I got 'n' how I got it. She 's been a secret these five
year; stuck t' her tighter 'n' Erne Moore holds th' gals down t'
Pickanock dances, 'n' that 's closer 'n' a burl on a birch. Fact is, I
never told nobody 'fore now; 'n' I wouldn't be tellin' it t' youse now,
only just 'fore we come up here I got a letter from one o' th' two
brothers we blindfolded, sayin' his brother was dead an' he goin' t'
Californy t' live, 'n' wa'n't comin' into th' bush no more.

"If that feller got hold o' her, my brother 'n' me 'd have t' go t'
Australia or th' Cape, for him that's still livin' 's just about 's mean
a feller 's Warry's a good one; an' any little _re_pute we've built up 's
guides 'n' hunters, he'd put in th' rest o' his life tryin' t' smash 's
flat 's that fool _habitaw_ cook got when Larry Adams sot on him for
cookin' pa'tridges as soup. He'd just par'lyze her till we couldn't even
get a job goin' t' hunt 'n' fetch th' cows out o' a ten acre pasture.
'N' th' worst o' 't is I don't know that I'd blame him so almighty much
for doin' it, for there was sure somethin' comin' t' us for foolin' them
I don't believe we got yet.

"Th' two o' them came up from across th' line--ain't goin' t' tell you
what place they come from or even th' State--in late October, for th' two
weeks dog-runnin' season; youse know there is only two weeks