Those were anxious moments for me, as well as for the young man who was ten years my junior. I was seated on our packs, my Winchester lying across my knees, cocked; Coonskin sat on the ground at my right, with shot-gun in hand. Our revolvers were in our belts. Our bearded and sun-burned faces, long hair, and generally rough attire, added to our unfriendly attitude, must have puzzled the approaching horsemen. When they had come to a hundred feet from us, I called roughly, "Helloa, boys! come in. You're just in time for grub."
Instantly Don leaped to his feet, and with tail straight out and body trembling from rage he uttered a savage growl of defiance. He identified the desperadoes.
Instantly reining their steeds, one of them slung some simple questions at me, designed, no doubt, to throw us off guard.
"Purty nice lot of burros you've got," he began.
"Pretty fair," I replied disinterestedly.
"Which way you traveling?"
"West. Where 're you bound?" I inquired.
"Just lookin' round. Which is the trail to Hamilton?"
I did not answer. Then the man asked: "How far is it?"
"I don't know, and I don't care a d——," I answered coarsely, with bravado, as if I considered it wasting time to talk.