“Well!––coyote catchem,” was all Sing would say.
“Yes!––and I suppose coyote leave bones in the garbage heap at your back door? Look here, Sing!––next time Chinese coyote take any more chicken, I fill him up buck shot out of that gun. No more chicken for you,––see!”
“All light!” conciliated the wily Chinaman, rising to go now that the discussion had come a bit too near home for his comfort. “I tell you quick next time coyote come––you fill him belly buck shot, heap plenty.”
Two hours later, when the moon came up, the coyotes certainly provided entertainment. They howled and laughed, taunting an old terrier dog which belonged to the ranch and had neither the speed nor the inclination to try its mettle against its vicious enemies. It growled and barked a-plenty, but the coyotes sensed their safety and ventured the closer and yelped the louder in sheer deviltry.
Jim and Phil got down their guns, in the hope of bagging at least one of the brutes, but before they got outside, a wild frightened squawking and a tremendous to-do of fluttering told its own story. They raced round, but by the time they got to the rear of the house the squawking was quite a bit away, and the moon, ere it shot behind a cloud, showed two distant, shadowy forms scurrying quickly over the hill with their kill.
Phil fired a shot, but it did not seem to take any effect.
“I guess we put too much blame on poor old Sing after all,” said Jim, “but I could have sworn he was meddling with these hens. I never knew the chink yet that could resist a chicken coop. He’s even worse than the nigger is for that.
“I can hear music down at Sing’s now; let us go quietly along and see what he is up to.”
They went on to Sing’s shack and peeped cautiously in at the window.