“Don’t monkey with me,” states Dirty Shirt, hoarse-like. “Don’t do it.
I’d just as soon hit a tagger with a rock as a ——”
Them lights open up just about in the same spot, and the next second
Dirty bumps me and we went down together. I didn’t stay down—not me.
Self-preservation is strong within me and my mind is fancy-free. I
bounced right to my feet and I just ran.
It was so dark I couldn’t see a danged thing, but I went somewhere. I
reckon Dirty Shirt went somewhere too. I hit the road, and behind me I
can hear the panting exhaust of that man-eatin’ tiger. It didn’t spur me
to further efforts, ’cause a human being can only go just so fast
anyway.
It’s raining awful hard, but I knowed when I went into the next ford,
’cause it knocked my feet out from under me and I turns dismal
flip-flops until I lands high, but not dry, on the sand-bar. I manages
to crawl up out of the flood and just then I hears very hoarse-like—
“Kittie, kittie, kittie, kittie! Nice kittie,” and then a rock comes
along and bounces off my vertebray.
“What do you think you are throwing rocks at?” I asks.