“Eh? What shoots?” cried Griggs.
“Artemisia—this stuff we’re riding through.”
“Oh, the sage-brush! Well, p’r’aps it is, but I allus thought it was from swallowing so much alkali dust. Regular soda plain, this.”
“What are we likely to find farther on, Griggs?” said Chris, after that gentleman had been remonstrating a little with the bell-mule for trying to bite Ned’s mustang, the said remonstrating being performed with the butt of his rifle, which had to be applied hard upon the vicious animal’s head.
“What are we likely to find to shoot?” replied Griggs, with a satisfied grunt, for the mule was plodding steadily on again. “Well, Indians.”
“But we can’t eat them,” cried Chris, laughing.
“No, my lad; I should say buck Indian would be as tough as his own teepee (skin lodge, hut, or tent). Matter o’ taste, though, I s’pose. No cannibal that I ever heard of in our family.”
“No nonsense, Griggs,” said Ned. “What are we really likely to find?”
“The gold if we’re lucky,” said the American dryly.
“I mean, what are we likely to shoot for the pot?”