The silence was deep and unbroken, except for an occasional faint swish or scrape, for three men had settled down where they had landed, there to remain until daylight, not far off, came to help them.
Out of the clearing a small, striped animal moved leisurely and defiantly, tainting the air, and entered the tent. It instantly became the cynosure of three pairs of anxious eyes, for while August was a long way off, three worried punchers found small satisfaction in that. They would sooner face an angry silver-tip, or a cougar with young, than to intrude upon the vision of that insignificant but odorous "'phoby cat." Each of them knew of instances, related by others, where men bitten by a skunk had gone raving mad; but none of them, personally, ever had seen any such case; and none of them had any intention of letting the other two see any such a shocking spectacle in the immediate future.
The little animal emerged from the tent and appeared to be undecided as to which way to go; and no roulette ball ever possessed the fascination nor furnished the thrills that took hold of the three staring watchers. It took a few steps one way and a few steps the other, and then started straight for the thicket where Art Fleming shuddered and swore under his breath. Two sighs arose on the air concurrent with the cursing.
"Just my cussed luck!" gritted Fleming. "Get out of here, cuss you!" he whispered fiercely, and raised his Colt. No sane man, with his firm beliefs regarding skunks, would hesitate when forced to choose between probable death from a bullet or certain and horrible death from hydrophobia. The skunk reached the edge of the thicket, five feet from the perspiring puncher, and was blown into a mass of reeking flesh.
Fleming groaned miserably. "They shore dies game!" he swore, half-nauseated. "They're cussed strong finishers! Why couldn't he 'a' headed for one of th' others? I got to move, right now."
He did so, slowly, cautiously, painfully; but the scent moved with him. He stopped, mopped his face, and then held his hand away from him. His sleeve, vest, and sombrero proclaimed their presence with an enthusiastic strength and persistence.
"Cussed if he didn't hit me! An' I might just as well go back to th' ranch, so far's huntin' Nelson is concerned. He could smell me a day before he caught sight of me!" A sickly grin slipped over his face, for he was blessed with a keen sense of humor. "Won't Gates an' Quigley be indignant when I odors in upon 'em!"
Purdy rolled his head in silent mirth, one hand over his nose; and Holbrook alternately chuckled and swore, wishing that the soft wind would shift and spare him.
"Laugh!" blazed Fleming, angry, ashamed, and disgusted, removing his vest and throwing it into the clearing. His sombrero followed it and then there was a ripping sound and a red flannel shirt sleeve joined the other cast-offs. The little, persistent flame on the stick blazed higher and revealed the collection of personal effects.