“I would fain establish a right, Natty, to the honor of this death;
and surely if the hit in the neck be mine it is enough; for the shot
in the heart was unnecessary—what we call an act of supererogation,
Leather-Stocking.”

“You may call it by what larned name you please, Judge,” said the
hunter, throwing his rifle across his left arm, and knocking up a
brass lid in the breech, from which he took a small piece of greased
leather and, wrapping a bail in it, forced them down by main strength
on the powder, where he continued to pound them while speaking. “It’s
far easier to call names than to shoot a buck on the spring; but the
creatur came by his end from a younger hand than either your’n or
mine, as I said before.”

“What say you, my friend,” cried the traveller, turning pleasantly to
Natty’s companion; “shall we toss up this dollar for the honor, and
you keep the silver if you lose; what say you, friend?”

“That I killed the deer,” answered the young man, with a little
haughtiness, as he leaned on another long rifle similar to that of
Natty.

“Here are two to one, indeed,” replied the Judge with a smile; “I am
outvoted—overruled, as we say on the bench. There is Aggy, he can’t
vote, being a slave; and Bess is a minor—so I must even make the best
of it. But you’ll send me the venison; and the deuce is in it, but I
make a good story about its death.”

“The meat is none of mine to sell,” said Leather-Stocking, adopting a