THE PANTHER'S CUB. 83 



thinks I to myself, * ef it's right to shoot the old painter, 

 it is right to ketch her kitten.' That's the natur of man ; 

 ef they do anything wrong they reason to themselves to 

 make it right. 



" ' Jerusalem !' sez I, as it got blacker and the fire-flies 

 cum about, * why don't she cum ?' Jist then, in lookin' 

 around me, I sees a light shine on the other shore a little 

 way below. I knew right off it was an Injin camp, and 

 reckoned it was part of Tiger Tail's band, that ha'd cum 

 up from below. Nasty varmints that band was worse 

 en painters any day. Howsumever, Injins or no Injins, 

 they will help fight the painter ; so I rolled a drift-log 

 into the water, and once more paddled over the river. 

 I looked behind once or twice to see if the painter wasn't 

 a comin' over, too, and climbin' on the log behind me, 

 but it was only the mullet jumpin' in the river, and so 

 I got over with the cub all right, and put right down 

 the bank for the camp. Yer better believe I didn't let 

 grass grow under me. As I cum up to the fire-light, I 

 saw who the Injins were; they were friendly enough 

 that summer, but mighty mean cusses, and had served 

 me many a dirty trick. Their camp was just in the edge 

 of the timber, and the squaws were cooking supper in a 

 pot, while about a dozen men sat around in a ring, 

 lookin' on and suckin' their thumbs, wrapped up in their 

 blankets, just as if it was cold. As I cum up, I looked 

 back on my track, and whar the sandy bank lay agin 

 the water, whar it war brightened up by the sunset, I 

 see the she-painter cumin' like greased lightnin'. 



