The chances, that a-way, is even.
Number two is twice as hard; an' when I snags onto number three--I downs that hold-up over by the foot of Fisher's Peak--the chances has done mounted to be three to one ag'in me.

So it goes gettin' higher an' higher, ontil when I corrals my 'leventh, it's 'leven to one he wins onless he's got killin's of his own to stand off mine.

I don't reckon none he has though,' says Crooked Claw, curlin' his nose contemptuous.
'He's heap big squaw--a coward; an' would hide from me like a quail.

He looks big an' brave an' strong, but his heart is bad--he is a poor knife in a good sheath.

So I don't waste a bullet on him, seein' his fear, but kills him with my war-axe.