Stop that, boy!
Hawk. Goin' for the Musselshell. Take me a week's ridin', and he'll be there in... hell, he's there already.
You're the same dumbass pilgrim who I've been hearing for twenty days, and smellin' for three!
I am Bear Claw Chris Lapp; bloodkin to the grizzer that bit Jim Britcher's ass! YOU are molesting my hunt!
Heh, heh, heh. How come you ain't been scalped?
You turn down this gift, and they'll slit you, me, Caleb and the horses from crotch to eyeball with a dull deer antler!
I, Hatchet Jack, being of sound mind and broke legs, do leaveth my rifle to the next thing who finds it, Lord hope he be a white man. It is a good rifle, and killeth the bear that killeth me. Anyway, I am dead. Sincerley, Hatchet Jack.
His name was Jeremiah Johnson, and they say he wanted to be a mountain man. The story goes that he was a man of proper wit and adventurous spirit, suited to the mountains. Nobody knows where abouts he come from and don't seem to matter much. He was a young man and ghosty stories about the tall hills didn't scare him none. He was looking for a Hawken gun, .50 caliber or better. He settled for a .30, but damn, it was a genuine Hawken, and you couldn't go no better. Bought him a good horse, and traps, and other truck that went with being a mountain man, and said good-bye to whatever life was down there below.