"Be sure to cut his head off first," warned Frank. "I've known of cases where a rattler believed to be done for was able to coil up and strike a fellow's leg with his poisoned fangs."
When the punchers and the boys got through with their self-imposed job there was not a live snake, small or large, in all that patch of woods.
"We'll sure keep our eyes peeled after this," said Lige Smith, as they started back to the ranch house "and it's a pipe cinch no snakes are ever going to hole out again in our wood patch."
Of course, Mr. Wallace was sorry to lose all the hay and straw that had gone up in smoke and flames, for it might prove useful during the coming winter season.
"But for one thing," he told Frank, when on another day they were talking over numerous plans, "we'll never think of rebuilding that barn, not having the same apprehension of forage shortage that haunted Uncle George. Besides, Lige assures me the winters are getting milder every season up here in the shadow of the Rockies, and that there will always be plenty of grass for our small herd."
The three boys were by degrees preparing to start on the long cherished trip to the mountains. Gold Fork and all its traditions of former glories before the diggings panned out, lured them more and more every day.
Lanky had persisted in his endeavor to prove himself of real cowboy caliber. He could ride any bronco that came his way, sticking on as he called it "like a burr in a darky's wool."
But one thing Frank noticed that roused his curiosity a bit. Somehow, the often expressed intention on Lanky's part to own and proudly wear as natty a pair of fringed and decorated "chaps" as any puncher could boast, seemed to have died out completely.
"What's happened to make you change your mind about those gaudy chaps, Lanky?" Frank asked one day, as their preparations for their trip neared completeness.
Lanky grinned good-naturedly.