“Good gorry!” swore Step-and-a-Half, and whipped out his six-shooter and fired three shots into the air.
Footsteps came scurrying. Buddy's mother swept him into her arms, laughing with a little whimpering sound of tears in the laughter. Buddy wriggled protestingly in her arms.
“L'kout! Y' all SKUCSH 'im! I got a HAWN-toe; wight here.” He patted his chest gloatingly. “An' I got a snake. I kilt 'im. An' I'm HUNGRY.”
Mother of Buddy though she was, Lassie set him down hurriedly and surveyed her man-child from a little distance.
“Buddy! Drop that snake instantly'”
Buddy obeyed, but he planted a foot close to his kill and pouted his lips. “'S my snake. I kilt 'im,” He said firmly. He pulled the horned toad from his waist-front and held it tightly in his two hands. “An's my hawn-toe. I ketche'd'm. 'Way ova dere,” he added, tilting his tow head toward the darkness behind him.
Bob Birnie rode up at a gallop, pulled up his horse in the edge of the fire glow and dismounted hastily.
Bob Birnie never needed more than one glance to furnish him the details of a scene. He saw the very small boy confronting his mother with a dead snake, a horned toad and a stubborn set to his lips. He saw that the mother looked rather helpless before the combination—and his brown mustache hid a smile. He walked up and looked his first-born over.
“Buddy,” He demanded sternly, “where have you been?”
“Out dere. Kilt a snake. Ants was trailing a herd. I got a HAWN-toe. An' I'm hungry!”