By an' by I happens to look 'roun'. Dar's de dead varmint in de blue coat an' ruffled shirt up ag'in, wid his gun on de log, an' p'intin' right at my ribs. "Ouch!" ses I, an' flings Black Thunder atwix. Black Thunder flings me back fur de pop. Back I flings him ag'in atwix. Den him me ag'in, me him ag'in, an' all de time de dead varmint a-follerin' us wid his gun, waitin' to pop my flanks. So, de dead varmint kep' me watchin' so close, an' de live varmint kep' me movin' so fas', I didn't know what I's doin', couldn't tell whar I's gwine. Dar I was, rammed close up in a corner atwix a tree an' a log; no gittin' out, no flingin' big Injun atwix. Dead varmint takin' his aim--finger on trigger, ready to pull. "Burlman Rennuls," ses I to myse'f, "you's a goner," when dar comes Grumbo a-pitchin'--no stoppin' to smell noses. One long lunge he makes, one long, stretchin' lunge--sich a lunge I neber seed a dog make befo'. 'Peared as ef he'd lef' his hin' parts way back yander, to git de quicker at de varmint's throat wid his fo'parts. Back falls Injun, wid a kick an' a yell; off goes gun, wid a kick an' a bang, the bullet a-whizzin' right 'twix' our noses. "Ouch!" ses I. "Ugh!" says Black Thunder. [Audience: "I yi!" "Oho!" "U-gooh!" See Glossary. It may have been a coincidence, but just here Grumbo fetched the stump a ratifying rap of the tail.] Ah! ladies an' gen'lemen [patting his comrade-in-arms on the head], you don't know how glad I wus to see dat dog. An' white folks say dat Grumbo's got no humin feelin's. Git out! Den I takes a long bref, Grumbo still a-holdin' fas' to de dead varmint. "Burlman Rennuls," says I to myse'f, "de big Injun's too active fur you--too much like a cat fur you. You cain't throw him down, but you kin let him throw you down; an' once a-flat uf yo' back on de groun' you kin wollop him ober as easy as turnin' a pancake, den chaw him up any way you please." So, I pushes him hard--he pushes me back still harder--when down we comes, kerwollop, chug--nigger below, Injun on top. But, in de shake uf a sheep's tail, nigger comes up, Injun goes down. I grabs fur my knife. It's gone--slipped out in de scuffle. Big Injun grabs fur his knife; dat's gone, too. He jerks out his pipe an' breaks it in flinders ober my head. "Ouch!" says I. I looks roun' fur somethin' good fur beatin' out brains, an' dar lays my ax. I grabs it up, now ready fur a cleaver, an' no mistake. Big Injun ain't, though; he ain't ready fur any sich a thing. Up he comes wid a whirl, an' down I goes wid a fling, my ax a-flyin' way out yander. But in de wriggle uf a buck's tail comes up nigger ag'in; goes down Injun ag'in. Yes, an' a leetle mo' dan dat: nigger an' Injun clean ober de turn uf de hill, an' now a-slidin', slidin' down whar it wus steep as a house-ruff.