hill. You scratch
out an' git de guns, an' yo' day's work's ober."

So, I ups ag'in; an' dis time under de leanin'-over bank, whar de
cane-brake wus, de roots uf de brake a-hangin' down 'mos' to de water.
Now comes de rocks ag'in, as thick as hail. Grabbin' de cane-brakes, up
I goes, han' ober han', han' ober han'. De rocks stop flyin'. I looks
behin' me to see fur why. Dar goes Black Thunder drivin' 'cross de riber
down at de riffle, makin' de water fly befo' him like a runaway hoss. O
my little marster! Up I goes, in double-quick time. Half way up I sees a
painter a-grinnin' down at me frum a tree on de bank. Didn't like his
looks, but climbed on.

[Here the speaker was interrupted by a voice from the audience: "Cap'n
Rennuls, see yer now; ain't you lettin' on?"]

You g' long! Who stops fur painters in a pinch like dat, or any thing
else? Ef I'd turned back den would I be here now to tell you uf it? Git
out! So, painter, or what not, up I scrabbles, ober de bank wid a tug,
an' through de brake wid a squeeze, tel dar I wus at de foot uf de hill.
O my little marster! [A woman's voice in the audience: "Tsht, tsht,
tsht! Pore little feller!" See Glossary.]

Up we goes a-scratchin'; pullin' at de bushes an' weeds an' grass ter
help us 'long, an' tearin' dem up, like flax on a rainy day. Injun has
furder ter go, but longer legs ter go wid. So he gits ter de top uf de
hill as quick as me--him nighest his gun, me nighest my ax. He's
reachin' his han' out fur de gun, my han' 's on my ax a'ready, an' at
him de ax goes whizzin', an' pops him plump on de hip, an' ober he
tumbles. I runs to pick up my ax, dis time ter give de tough varmint a
cleaver, or neber. He can't run, he can't crawl; but he kin wollop, an'
wollop he does, like a rooster wid his head cut off. In de flash uf a
gun-flint, dar he's wolloped hisse'f to de turn uf de hill. I sends my
ax wid a good-by arter him, an' gives him a gash in de arm to 'member me
by. He sends me back a grin an' a whoop, an' away big Injun goes rollin'
an' tumblin'. I grabs up a gun--his own gun it was--an' sends him a long
far'well. He sends back a yell--de o-f-f-ullest yell I eber heerd in all
my bo'n days; offul enough ter come frum a grave-yard. Out comes
spirtin' de blood, a-flyin' frum de rollin' body like water frum a
flutter-mill. Down to de foot uf de hill a-whirlin' he goes, tel ober de
bank uf de riber he pitches. An' dat's de las' I sees uf big Injun.
[Audience: "I yi!" "O