AMOS DECKER. 337 



When we got up as far as the cabin of Amos my pony 

 was lame, and we stopped and asked if we could rest and 

 see to our critters. We spoke enough of the Missouri 

 language, which largely prevailed in that part although 

 occasionally mixed with and diluted by the vocabulary 

 of Posey county, Ind. to know that a horse was a "crit- 

 ter," and a cow was a "creetur." 



After the usual question, "Whar ye from?" and the 

 answer being satisfactory, he looked at my pony's foot 

 and pulled out a cactus thorn that had somehow got in 

 it, although no Indian pony would go near a bed of that 

 plant. He said: "I wouldn't ride him any more to-day; 

 stop over with me to-night, and the pony '11 be better in 

 the mawnin'." In the last sketch I referred to the 

 troubles that disturbed the Territory of Kansas, and 

 strangers were cautious, judging one to be "free State" 

 or "pro-slavery" by his nativity. Amos probably sized 

 us up long before we had him figured down, but it did 

 not take long to decide that he was to be trusted, be- 

 cause he could pronounce his r's, that shibboleth of the 

 man reared south of Mason and Dixon's line in those 

 days at least. 



Warren and I had been camping and living on small 

 game tempered with salt pork and the occasional pur- 

 chase of corn bread, and when Amos suggested that if 

 the water was not so muddy after the rain he would shoot 

 a pike for dinner, Warren suggested catching one. Amos 

 had no fish hooks, but we had a few and some lines. I 

 watched him rig for skittering, and remarked that he 

 had fished before. 



"Yes," said he, "we used to ketch pike in the Wabash 

 an' Massaseep by puttin' on a killy an' slingin' 'em out." 



I caught the word "killy," and said: "I s'pose it's a 

 long time since you left New York." 



