his gun on de log, an' p'intin'
right at my ribs. "Ouch!" ses I, an' flings Black Thunder atwix. Black
Thunder flings me back fur de pop. Back I flings him ag'in atwix. Den
him me ag'in, me him ag'in, an' all de time de dead varmint a-follerin'
us wid his gun, waitin' to pop my flanks. So, de dead varmint kep' me
watchin' so close, an' de live varmint kep' me movin' so fas', I didn't
know what I's doin', couldn't tell whar I's gwine. Dar I was, rammed
close up in a corner atwix a tree an' a log; no gittin' out, no flingin'
big Injun atwix. Dead varmint takin' his aim--finger on trigger, ready
to pull. "Burlman Rennuls," ses I to myse'f, "you's a goner," when dar
comes Grumbo a-pitchin'--no stoppin' to smell noses. One long lunge he
makes, one long, stretchin' lunge--sich a lunge I neber seed a dog make
befo'. 'Peared as ef he'd lef' his hin' parts way back yander, to git de
quicker at de varmint's throat wid his fo'parts. Back falls Injun, wid a
kick an' a yell; off goes gun, wid a kick an' a bang, the bullet
a-whizzin' right 'twix' our noses. "Ouch!" ses I. "Ugh!" says Black
Thunder. [Audience: "I yi!" "Oho!" "U-gooh!" See Glossary. It may have
been a coincidence, but just here Grumbo fetched the stump a ratifying
rap of the tail.]

Ah! ladies an' gen'lemen [patting his comrade-in-arms on the head], you
don't know how glad I wus to see dat dog. An' white folks say dat
Grumbo's got no humin feelin's. Git out! Den I takes a long bref, Grumbo
still a-holdin' fas' to de dead varmint. "Burlman Rennuls," says I to
myse'f, "de big Injun's too active fur you--too much like a cat fur you.
You cain't throw him down, but you kin let him throw you down; an' once
a-flat uf yo' back on de groun' you kin wollop him ober as easy as
turnin' a pancake, den chaw him up any way you please." So, I pushes him
hard--he pushes me back still harder--when down we comes, kerwollop,
chug--nigger below, Injun on top. But, in de shake uf a sheep's tail,
nigger comes up, Injun goes down. I grabs fur my knife. It's
gone--slipped out in de scuffle. Big Injun grabs fur his knife; dat's
gone, too. He jerks out his pipe an' breaks it in flinders ober my head.
"Ouch!" says I. I looks roun' fur somethin' good fur beatin' out brains,
an' dar lays my ax. I grabs it up, now ready fur a cleaver, an' no
mistake. Big Injun ain't, though; he ain't ready fur any sich a thing.
Up he comes wid a whirl, an' down I goes wid a fling, my ax a-flyin' way
out yander. But