“Have some more vulture,” said Ned quietly. “There’s all that piece of breast yet.”
“Vulture!” said Chris, laughing.
“Well, didn’t it taste bitter?”
“Yes, a little. It’s one of those prairie hen things, of course.”
“No, it was a fine fat cock.”
“Well, they call them prairie hens. It was, as you say, delicious.”
“Well, finish it.”
Chris shook his head, rose stiffly, and helped his companion to clear away.
“Now then,” he said, “I’m not much disposed to walk to-day. It’s just as if I’d strained one of the muscles or something up in my hip. I should like to go and sit out on the terrace. Haven’t got the glass, have you?”
“Yes, it’s there, in the lookout. You can’t do better than take my place. There’s a rifle too, and cartridges, in case the Indians show, and the stones are built-up with loop-holes so that you’ll be safe from arrows if the brutes do come crawling up and chasing the scouting-party.”