“Why, ain’t thet the way? What t’other way could a couple of fellers show thet they love each other? Ye wouldn’t expect ’em to git mushy, would ye? No. Ain’t no t’other way ’cept to arg’fy an’ fit it out. Why, Jim an’ me have got so het up now an’ ag’in thet we drawed guns on each other, an’ one time Jim shot at me, but thet critter never could shoot. All he kin do is to foller a trail, but thar ain’t a man lives thet kin beat him at thet. The time he shot at me, I was so all-fired tickled to think I’d riled him till he drawed, thet I jest chucked my gun an’ grabbed him an’ hugged him till we both got to laughin’. Thet’s the only time we ever come nigh gittin’ mushy like a couple o’ gals,” finished Conifer, who stroking his whiskers, turned and strode out to the edge of the gulch that dropped away at the rear of the lean-to.
Hippy looked at Tom and Tom looked at Hippy, then both burst into laughter.
“Can you beat it?” chuckled Hippy.
Tom Gray agreed that he could not. Sam was out of range of both their words or their laughter, absorbed in his study of the surrounding mountains and gorges. His forehead wore a heavy frown, and, as he looked he thought, with all the concentration that he could summon, trying to evolve a theory to find a solution of the mystery of his companion’s disappearance. No answer came to him.
Two-gun Pete, who was listening to the conversation of the two Overland men, suddenly reared his head attentively.
“Did ye hear it?” he demanded.
The Overlanders nodded. The distant report of a rifle had been heard by all, but as there was no repetition of it they again fell to talking.
“Wha—at!” cried Lieutenant Wingate, springing to his feet when, a moment later, Sam Conifer came staggering in. “In the name of Mike, what’s happened?”
The old guide’s face was covered with blood from the forehead down, which served to accentuate the pallor that showed in the narrow strip above it.
“Sam! What is it?” begged Tom Gray.