“Everywhere round ye—a reg'lar nest of 'em! That's your way round!” She pointed to the right, and again began beating the underbrush with her wand. The men had, meantime, huddled together in consultation. It was evident that the story of Peggy and her influence on rattlesnakes was well known, and, in all probability, exaggerated. After a pause, the whole party filed off to the right, making a long circuit of the unseen stockade, and were presently lost in the distance. Peggy ran back to the fugitive. The fire of savagery and desperation in his eyes had gone out, but had been succeeded by a glazing film of faintness.
“Can you—get me—some water?” he whispered.
The stockade was near a spring,—a necessity for the menagerie. Peggy brought him water in a dipper. She sighed a little; her “butcher bird”—now lost forever—had been the last to drink from it!
The water seemed to revive him. “The rattlesnakes scared the cowards,” he said, with an attempt to smile. “Were there many rattlers?”
“There wasn't ANY,” said Peggy, a little spitefully, “'cept YOU—a two-legged rattler!”
The rascal grinned at the compliment.
“ONE-legged, you mean,” he said, indicating his helpless limb.
Peggy's heart relented slightly. “Wot you goin' to do now?” she said. “You can't stay on THERE, you know. It b'longs to ME!” She was generous, but practical.
“Were those things I fired out yours?”
“Yes.”