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 natnr 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 had cum 

 up from below. Nasty varmints that band was — worse 

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

 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 Avere 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 ligbtnin'. 



