CHAPTER XXIVWell, when I cleaned that rabbit for the fire, my bones was fair aching in me with a yearning that the boys might of been on deck to see that shot. Because everything was perfect. That doggone rabbit was about as far away as a revolver shot would carry, and I’d fired from the hip so easy and nacheral and careless as though I was never in want of any target easier than this here one. But no, there couldn’t be anybody around except this old withered goat that had no good words for nobody and that would as soon cut his wrinkled throat as to pass a compliment along. He sat down and watched me roasting the rabbit.
“You ought to let the fire burn down and toast that flesh on wooden spits over the coals,” says this old goat. “I never saw a grown up man that called himself a mountaine
