CHAPTER XII—THE DEFENSE OF THE LOG BRIDGE
“Listen to Buckskin calling him all sorts of names, would you?” exclaimed Andy, a few minutes later.
“If that bear only understood half he’s been called, he just couldn’t stand it a minute longer,” declared Mr. Witherspoon, chuckling, “but the poor old chap’s education has been neglected, so he doesn’t know cowboy lingo. I reckon he never even opens one eye, but keeps dozing right along. He hasn’t lost any cowboy, and so he doesn’t want to be bothered. No good, is it, Buckskin?”
“Don’t look that way, sir,” replied the other, disconsolately, “that’s the trouble with not having the gift of gab. Now, if I was as good a hand at callin’ names, and rattling off the lingo as Puffer Pete, chances are he’d just have to show a leg. Well, here’s to open up a little smoke spell with the boss.”
Accordingly, he bent over, and seemed to be fixing the small tinder he had carried across with him. Now and then he would turn his head and call out something or other to the boys, as though explaining to the boys what he was doing.
“Now she’s all ready for biz,” he finally declared, “watch my smoke, fellers. Hi! here’s looking to you, old man; you’ve just got to wake up, and let us take a look at your mug, you know. There she goes! Whoop-la!”
The watchers saw a wisp of smoke creep up lazily. There did not seem to be any wind to carry it away; and presently it met a back draught, for it appeared to be sucked directly into the yawning crevice at the base of the cliff.
Larger grew the volume of smoke, until quite a good-sized column was oozing out of the brush Buckskin had piled up.
“Now for the scent weed!” he called out.
They saw him carefully place some of this on top of the pile, and toward the back where its odor would be sure to be wafted into the den, with the smoke from the burning wood.