"
"Mama!" Weary, exclaimed annoyedly, "that darn fence is on an up-slope, so
it's going to be next to impossible to jump it! I guess here's where we do
about an eight-hundred-foot scene of Indian Warfare, or Fighting For Their
Lives. How yuh feel, Cadwalloper?"
"Me?" Pink's eyes were purple with sheer, fighting rage. "I feel like cleaning
out that bunch back there. They'll have something to howl about when I get
through!"
"Stay back uh me, boys!" Applehead's voice had a masterful sharpness that made
the three tighten reins involuntarily. "You foller me and don't crowd up on
me, neither. Send back a shot or two if them Injuns gits too ambitious."
The three fell in behind him without cavil or question. He was in charge of
the outfit, and that settled it. Pink, released from irksome inaction by the
permission to shoot, turned and fired back at the first Indian his sights
rested upon. He saw a spurt of sand ten jumps in advance of his target, and he
swore and fired again without waiting to steady his aim. The sorrel
pack-horse, loping along fifty yards or so behind with a rhythmic clump-clump
of frying-pan against coffee-pot at every leap he took, swerved sharply, shook
his head as though a bee had stung him, and came on with a few stiff-legged
"crow hops" to register his violent objection to being shot through the ear.
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