Pickles bounced in, his rifle under his arm. "Hullo, Buck!" he cried. "Shot a coyote to-day!"
"Good, Pickles," smiled Buck. "Want a job shootin' a man to-morrow?"
"Betcher life! Is it Dave?"
"No, it's Jake, here," replied Buck. "You take yore rifle an' come with me an' Jake to-morrow. If he don't dig fast enough to suit you, you shoot him in th' laig."
"Betcher life! Which leg?" asked Pickles, agog with anticipation.
"I 'm leavin' that to you, Pickles. You 're gettin' big enough to figger things out for yoreself."
"Will he limp like Hopalong?"
"Worse, mebby."
Jake, grinning, feared Pickles might be carried away with his zeal, and he put in a laughing objection; but he sobered instantly at Buck's sharp reply.
"I mean it. He 'll shoot if he 's a friend o' mine. I ain't goin' to lose a lot of cows 'cause I 've got a man too lazy to dig. You 've got yore orders, Pickles: obey 'em like a real Bar-20 puncher."