"Do you think I'm a yellow dog, or what?" Sandy snapped back, glaring at him. "Quit? I think I see myself. I'll smash this Dade's belt buckle right now." He lifted his rifle.
"Hold on," said McHale. "This kid is some obstinate," he called to Dade. "His tumtum is that he'll stick. I don't want him in it."
"He's got his chance," said Dade. "It's up to him."
Young McCrae launched a string of epithets at him, the cream of the vocabularies of certain mule skinners of his acquaintance. Meanwhile his finger itched on the trigger.
"You're a durn poor persuader," said McHale. "The kid will stick. Far's I'm concerned, if you want me, come and get me. Don't show your hide no more. I'm surely done talkin' to you."
Dade turned and walked away. Sandy covered him.
"Not in the back," said McHale.
Immediately afterward a thirty-thirty struck a rock in front of them, glancing off at an angle, wailing away into the distance. Sandy McCrae, lying at full length peering along the slim barrel of his weapon, pressed the trigger and swore in disappointment.
"Centred a stump," he said. "There it is yet. It looked like somebody."
All was quiet for five minutes. Then a sleet of lead pelted their position, patting against the cliff behind them, and splashing upon the rocks in front. Splinters and particles of stone, lead, and nickel flew everywhere.