"That's right! Start kickin'!" retorted Gates at the top of his voice, "Didn't you ever hear a slug before? Don't you know that th' slug you can hear is past you?"
"That so? How'd you like to listen to one now?" angrily shouted the objector. "How do I know that th' next one is goin' past?"
"Ah, go to h—l!" jeered Gates. "Little things make big bumps on you, you sage hen!"
"Little things!" roared a second voice. "Little things! Would you lissen to him? It sounded like a train of cars to me, d—d if it didn't!"
"Thinks he's treed another cougar," laughed a third voice.
The three appeared upon the plateau and rode toward the disgruntled marksman, their hands up over their heads in mock anxiety and surrender. Down from the north rolled a swift, rhythmic drumming, and Harrison, eagerly alert, his rifle balanced in his hands, slid to a dusty stop.
"What is it?" he demanded.
"Reckon it was Cookie's pet ki-yote," grinned Gates. "There ain't nothin' with wings, even, can beat 'em. He just melted."
"Yo're a d—d fool!" swore Harrison angrily.