human
The law reckons you a man--so fur, said Mormon.
gpt
Yore pals 'ud pack a jury to hang me fo' shootin' the dirty heart out of you, but--ef you ever let out a foul word or a look about that gel, I'll take my chance of their bein' enough white men round here to 'quit me. There ought to be a bounty on yore scalp an' ears. You hear me, Jim Plimsoll, I'm talkin' straight. Now git, head yore hawss fo' the short trail to Hereford an' keep travelin'. Pronto!