CHAPTER XVIII
Bug Eye Sings
The small group of riders in that clearing in Thunder Canyon sat silent on ponies that pawed the ground restlessly. The old woman who stood before them, gun in hand, whistled shrilly. Out of the cabin bounded a dog, a huge mastiff.
“Kind of thinkin’ things over now, ain’t ye?” the woman cackled. “You fellers jest keep yer hands on the pommels of yer saddles—no lower. What’s the idee, scarin’ peaceful folks outen their sleep?”
“Well, ma’am,” Gus drawled, “course we didn’t know you was restin’. But it seems to me like we didn’t have no band playin’ when we rode up. An’ if it’s all the same to you, keep an easy finger on that trigger. She might be loaded, an’ accidents will happen.”
“You bet she’s loaded! Heavy buckshot, too! Don’t make no mistake about that! What you-all want?”
“Nothing, of you,” Roy spoke up loudly. “We didn’t even know you were here. We were riding up the canyon, and just happened on your place.”
“Ye did, hey?” The woman considered this, but did not lower the rifle. “Don’t sound likely. There’s not many folks ride by here nowadays. What’s yer business?”
“Sellin’ seed catalogs,” Nick answered.
“Seed catalogs? Ain’t never heard mention of ’em. But let me tell you—this here canyon ain’t healthy fer strangers, especially them that carry guns in saddle-holsters. If I was you, I’d turn right around and ride the other way. The scenery is fine at the other end.”