'I'd rather die first,' says he, 'than eat it;' so we didn't kill it.

But that very day Martin got a shot at a wild horse an' killed it.

The natter-list was down in the bed o' a creek at the time gropin' for creepers, an' he didn't see it.
"'He'll niver eat it,' says Martin.
"'That's true,' says I.
"'Let's tell him it's a buffalo,' says he.
"'That would be tellin' a lie,' says I.
"So we stood lookin' at each other, not knowin' what to do.
"'I'll tell ye what,' cries Martin; 'we'll cut it up, and take the meat into camp an' cook it without _sayin' a word_.' "'Done,' says I, 'that's it;' for ye must know the poor critter wos no judge o' meat.

He couldn't tell one kind from another, an' he niver axed questions.

In fact he niver a'most spoke to us all the trip.
Well, we cut up the horse, an' carried the flesh an' marrowbones into camp, takin' care to leave the hoofs an' skin behind, an' sot to work an' roasted steaks an' marrowbones." "When the natter-list came back ye should ha' seen the joyful face he put on when he smelt the grub, for he was all but starved out, poor critter." "'What have we got here ?' cried he, rubbin' his hands an' sittin' down." "'Steaks an' marrow-bones,' says Martin." "'Capital!' says he.