"See 'em, Hank?" cried Carter anxiously.
"See what?" came a growl from above.
"Injuns, of course, you d—d fool!"
"Naw," snorted Hank. "There ain't no Injuns out at all, not after Jimmy got that one."
"Then what's th' matter?"
"My dawg's lickin' yore dawg. Sic him, Pete! Hi, there! Don't you run!"
"My dawg still gettin' licked?" grinned Carter.
"I 'll swap you," offered Hank promptly. "Mine can lick yourn, anyhow."
"In a race, mebby."
"H—l!" growled Hank, cautiously separating himself from a patch of hot resin that had exuded generously from a pine knot. "I 'm purty nigh cooked an' I 'm comin' down, Injuns or no Injuns. If they was comin' this way they'd 'a' been here long afore this."