“Sanders has a fondness for snakes—bad ones. He may have a few around where you can step on them. Keep your eyes peeled.”
At that moment sounded a soft thump at the side of the barn. Ward started to turn.
“Copperheads—rattlers—poisonous!” asserted Douglas loudly. “Watch out for ’em!”
Ward’s eyes hung on his a couple of seconds longer, held by the warning. Then he turned and looked toward the barn.
“What’s that bump?” he muttered.
“Horse moving around, or a hog down below. Don’t forget those snakes.”
Then Douglas looked. Only the old barn met his anxious gaze. Ward, after a speculative glance around, nodded and started away.
“All right. See you later, maybe. So long.”
Followed by Bill, he stepped briskly to the road. Along the lumpy wheel-ruts in the sand they trudged, their voices floating back in growling tones that boded ill for somebody. Then the roadside brush-growth blotted out their receding figures, and the only sound was the cheerful chorus of the crickets in the grass.