“Get that darned burro outa sight, will you?” Luck bawled impatiently when Applehead paused to send a murderous glance back toward camera. “What's the matter—yuh PARALYZED down there? Haul him in behind that bank! The moon'll be up before you get turned around, at that rate!”
“You shet yore haid!” Applehead retorted at the full capacity of his lungs and with an absolute disregard for Luck's position as director of the company. “Who's leadin' this here burro—you er me? Fer two cents I'd come back and knock the tar outa you, Luck! Stand up there on a rock and flop your wings and crow like a danged banty rooster—'n' I was leadin' burros 'fore you was born! I'd like to know who yuh think you BE?”
Pete Lowry, standing feet-apart and imperturbably focussing the camera while the two yelled insults at each other, looked up at Luck.
“Riders in the background,” he announced laconically, and returned to his squinting and fussing. “Maybe you can make 'em hear with the megaphone,” he hinted, looking again at Luck. “They're riding straight up the canon, in the middle distance. They'll register in the scene, if you can't turn 'em.”
“Applehead!” Luck called through the megaphone to his irritated prospector. “Get those riders outa the canon—they're in the scene!”
Applehead promptly appeared, glaring up at luck. “Well, now, if I've got to haul this here dang jackass up this dang gulch, I cal'clate that'll be about job enough for one man,” he yelled. “How yuh expect me t' go two ways 't once? Hey? Yuh figured that out yit?” He turned then for a look at the interrupting strangers, and immediately they saw his manner change. He straightened up, and his right hand crept back significantly toward his hip. Applehead, I may here explain, was an ex-sheriff, and what range men call a “go-getter.” He had notches on the ivory handle of his gun—three of them. In fair fights and in upholding the law he had killed, and he would kill again if the need ever arose, as those who knew him never doubted.
Luck, seeing that backward movement of the hand, unconsciously hitched his own gun into position on his hip and came down off his rock ledge with one leap. Just as instinctively the Happy Family scrambled out of the shade and followed luck down the gulch to where Applehead stood facing down the canon, watchfulness in every tense line of his lank figure. Tommy Johnson, who never seemed to be greatly interested in anything save his work, got up from where he lay close beside the camera tripod and went over to the other side of the gulch where he could see plainer.
Like a hunter poising his shotgun and making ready when his trained bird-dog points, Luck walked guardedly down the gulch to where Applehead stood watching the horsemen who had for the moment passed out of sight of those above.
“Now, what's that danged shurf want, prowlin' up HERE with a couple uh depittys?” Applehead grumbled when he heard Luck's footsteps crunching behind him. “Uh course,” he added grimly, “he MIGHT be viewin' the scenery—but it's dang pore weather fur pleasure-ridin', now I'm tellin' ye! Them a comin' up here don't look good to ME, Luck—'n' if they ain't—”
“How do you know it's the sheriff?” Luck for no reason whatever felt a sudden heaviness of spirit.