"One of Buck's outfit," answered Fresno. "He is mighty slick with the runnin'-iron and brandin' other folks' calves."
"We can't be too careful," warned Sage-brush. "Things is strained to the bustin'-point, and any promise of gun-play is goin' to set off a whole lot of fireworks."
Show Low was on the verge of waking up. This he did, by gradually increasing the volume of each snore and breaking it off with a whistle.
At the very moment Sage-brush suggested gun-play, Show Low snorted his loudest.
"What's that?" asked Sage-brush, grabbing his revolver.
"Show Low. He's a regular brass band when he gets started—from the big trombone down to the tin whistle," laughed Fresno.
"It's a wonder he can sleep alongside of that noise."
"He can't," Fresno volunteered. "He'll wake himself up in a minute. He's off now."
The snores of Show Low grew more frequent until he climaxed his accompaniment to sleep with one awful snort, which awakened him. "Eh, what's that?" he yelled, as he bounded to a sitting posture.
"Didn't I tell you?" queried Fresno.