Pete and his companions moved away as Frenchy, shortly followed by Red, came in and reported.
"Eat an' drink, lively. Red, you get back to yore place an' take care of th' cut," Buck ordered. "Frenchy, you come out east with th' rest. There's cartridges for you both an' there's yore own rifle, Frenchy."
"Glad yo're going to start things," chewed Red through a mouthful of food. "It's about time we show them fellers we can live up to our reputations. Any of 'em coming my way won't go far."
Frenchy filled his pipe and lighted it from a stick he took out of the fire and as it began to draw well he stepped quickly forward and held out his hand. "Good luck, Red. They can't fight long."
"Same to you, Frenchy," Red cried, grasping the hand. "Yo're right, there. You look plumb wide awake, like Buck—how'd you do it?"
Frenchy laughed and strode after his foreman, Red watching him. "He's acting funny—reckon it's th' sleep he's missed. Well, here goes," and he, too, went off to the firing line.
—An' aching thoughts pour in on me,
Of Whiskey Bill,
came Johnny's song from the hut—and the fight began again.