"There
is nothing like a free country, nothing; and good business, when
it's well protected by law," says Nimrod, seating himself at the
table, filling a glass, bowing to his companions, drinking to the
health of his friends. He imagines himself the best fellow of the
lot. Taking Graspum by the hand, he says, "there is a clear hundred
for you, old patron!" pulls an Executive proclamation from his
pocket, and points to where it sets forth the amount of reward for
the outlaw-dead or alive. "I know'd whar the brute had his hole in
the swamp," he continues: "and I summed up the resolution to bring
him out. And then the gal o' Ginral Brinkle's, if I could pin her,
would be a clear fifty more, provided I could catch her without
damage, and twenty-five if the dogs havocked her shins. There was no
trouble in getting the fifty, seeing how my dogs were trained to the
point and call. Taste or no taste, they come square off at the word.
To see the critters trace a nigger, you'd think they had human in
them; they understands it so! But, I tell you what, it's one thing
to hunt a gal nigger, and another to run down an outlaw what has had
two or three years in the swamp. The catching him's not much, but
when ye have to slide the head off, all the pious in yer natur comes
right up to make yer feelings feel kind a' softish. However, the law
protects ye, and the game being only a nigger, different rules and
things govern one's feelings."
Bengal interrupts by laconically insinuating-raising his moody face,
and winking at Graspum-that it was all moonshine to talk about
trouble in that kind of business; "It's the very highest of
exhilarating sport!" he concludes emphatically.
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