under his wagon, and, of course, emphasising his address by an easy
and not ungraceful clatter of the adjective used so largely by poets
in denunciation of war--"we ain't goin' to travel these carrion a mile
to the gate, an' most likely fine it locked when we git there.
Hold on till I git my internal machine to work on the fence.
Dad! Where's that ole morepoke? O, you're there, are you? Fetch the jack
off o' your wagon--come! fly roun'! you're (very) slow for a young fellow.
Bum," (abbreviation of "bummer," and applied to the red-headed fellow)
"you surround them carrion, or we'll be losin' the run o' them two steers."

A low groan from Bum's mare followed the heavy stroke of the ruffian's spurs.
"Some o' you other (fellows) keep roun' that side," said he;
"I'll go this road. Up! you Red Roverite! "--No use...
The mare had had enough for one day; she stumbled, and fell,
rolling heavily over her rider. "What the (quadruple expletive)'s the matter
with her?" he continued, extricating himself, and kicking the beast
till she staggered to her feet. "Come on agen, an' don't gimme no more
o' your religiousness." He remounted, and the mare, under the strong stimulus
of his spurs, cantered laboriously out into the dark.

Meanwhile, Mosey had taken a hand-saw from its receptacle on his wagon,
and had cut the pine spar to a length of about eighteen inches less
than a panel of the fence. "Lash this 'ere saplin' hard down on the top rail,"
he now commanded. Price and Dixon obeyed, and Mosey laid
his powerful bottlejack on the rail, filling up the space, and began to turn it
with a long bolt, by way of lever. "You see, Tom," he remarked to me;
"this fixter'll put the crooked maginnis on any fence from ere to 'ell.
It's got to come. No matter how tight rails is shouldered,
they'll spring some; an' if every post'll give on'y half a inch, why then,
ten posts makes five or six inches; an' that's about all you want.