Only a little withered bunch of heather, tied by a blade of grass! Nothing more!,
"If he is as fat as you say, he will be a good mark for a bullet," says Mr. Rodney, genially, almost—I am ashamed to say—hopefully. "I should think they would easily pot him one of these dark night that are coming. By this time I suppose he feels more like a grouse than a man, eh?—'I'll die game' should be his motto.",
"Well," said the young man, "where is your piskun—where do you kill buffalo?".
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