What he did do was
to pour that last swallow of hot, black coffee down his throat and then laugh
his big haw-haw-haw that could be heard half a mile off.
"Y' oughta kep Applehead to home with the wimmin folks, Luck," he bawled
unabashed. "Night air's bad fer 'im, and the trail ain't goin' to be smooth
goin',--not if we gotta ride our hawses straight up, by cripes!"
"We haven't got to." Luck balanced his slice of bacon upon the unscorched side
of a bannock and glanced indifferently at the rim of rock that was worrying
the other. "I swung down here to make camp off the trail But it's only a half
mile or so over this rise that looks level to you, to where the lava ledge
peters out so we can ride over it easier than we rode up off the river-flat in
that loose sand. That ease your mind any?"
"Helps some," Big Medicine admitted, his eyes going speculatively to the rise
that looked perfectly level. "I'm willin' to take your word fer it, boss. But
what's gittin' to worry me, by cripes, is all this here war-talk about Injuns.
Honest to grandma, I feel like as if I'd been readin'--"
"Aw, it's jest a josh, Bud!" Happy Jack asserted boredly. "I betche there
ain't been a Injun on the fight here sence hell was a tradin' post!"
"You think there hasn't?" Luck looked up quickly to ask.
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