We hustles the flyin' demon full eighteen miles, our faithful dogs crowdin' close an' breathless at his coward heels.

Still, they don't catch up with him; he streaks it like some saffron meteor.
"'Only once does we approach within strikin' distance; that's when he crosses at old Stafford's whiskey still.

As he glides into view, Crittenden shouts: "'"Thar he goes!" "'For myse'f I'm prepared.

I've got one of these misguided cap-an'-ball six-shooters that's built doorin' the war; an' I cuts that hardware loose! This weepon seems a born profligate of lead, for the six chambers goes off together.

Which you should have seen the Chevy Chasers dodge! An' well they may; that broadside ain't in vain! My aim is so troo that one of the r'armost dogs evolves a howl an' rolls over; then he sets up gnawin' an' lickin' his off hind laig in frantic alternations.