“Shore,” replied the joyous puncher, recognizing Pete; “how'd yu git here?”
“Like a cow. Busy?”
“None whatever. Comin' up?”
“Nope. Skinny wants a smoke too.”
Hopalong handed tobacco and papers down the hole. “So long.”
“So long,” replied the daring Pete, who risked death twice for a smoke.
The hot afternoon dragged along and about three o'clock Buck held up an empty cartridge belt to the gaze of the curious Hopalong. That observant worthy nodded and threw a double handful of cartridges, one by one, to the patient and unrelenting Buck, who filled his gun and piled the few remaining ones up at his side. “Th' lives of mice and men gang aft all wrong,” he remarked at random.
“Th' son-of-a-gun's talkin' Shakespeare,” marveled Hopalong. “Satiate any, Buck?” he asked as that worthy settled down to await his chance.
“Two,” he replied, “Shorty an' another. Plenty damn hot down here,” he complained. A spurt of alkali dust stung his face, but the hand that made it never made another. “Three,” he called. “How many, Hoppy?”
“One. That's four. Wonder if th' others got any?”