"Something feels snaky around here today."
Applehead looked at him with a glimmer of relief in his eyes, but he did not
reply to the foreboding directly. "Boys, git yore rifles where you kin use 'em
quick," be advised them grimly. "I kin smell shootin' along this dang trail."
Pink's dimples showed languidly for a moment, and be looked a question at
Weary. Weary grinned answer and pulled his rifle from the "boot" where it was
slung under his right leg, and jerked the lever forward until a cartridge slid
with a click up into the chamber; let the hammer gently down with his thumb
and laid the gun across his thighs.
"She's ready for bear," he observed placidly.
"Well, now, you boys show some kinda sense," Applehead told them when Pink had
followed Weary's example. "Fellers like Happy and Bud, they shore do show
their ign'rance uh this here, dang country, when they up 'n' laff at the idee
uh trouble- -now I'm tellin' yuh!"
From the ridge which was no more than a high claw of the square butte, four
Indians in greasy, gray Stetsons with flat crowns nodded with grim
satisfaction, and then made baste to point the toes of their moccasins down to
where their unkempt ponies stood waiting.
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