“Want to shove me off?” snarled Charley, angrily. “For heaven's sake, Duke, do you want the whole earth?” he demanded of his second companion.
“You just bet yore shirt I do! An' I want a hole in it, too!”
“Ain't you got no sense?”
“Would I be up here if I had?”
“It's going to be hot as blazes up here when the sun gets high,” cheerfully prophesied Tim: “an' dry, too,” he added for a finishing touch.
“We'll be lucky if we're live enough to worry about the sun's heat—say, that was a close one!” exclaimed Duke, frantically trying to flatten a little more. “Ah, thought so—there's that blamed moon!”
“Wish I'd gone out the window instead,” growled Charley, worming behind Duke, to the latter's prompt displeasure.
“You fellers better come down, one at a time,” came from below. “Send yore guns down first, too. Red's a blamed good shot.”
“Hope he croaks,” muttered Duke. “That's closer yet!”
Tim's hand raised and a flash of fire singed Charley's hair. “Got to do something, anyhow,” he explained, lowering the Colt and peering across the plain.