"No," said the Blackguard, "he's very rare—thoroughbred of his kind—the only known specimen. He's getting sick of this expedition already. Go you home, Powder!"
Powder, assuming an expression of disdain, hopped off languidly on three legs.
"He's official dog to D Troop," explained the Blackguard; "draws his rations out of the hindquarters of every civilian dog within ten miles."
Mr. Ramsay took a case from his pocket, and with much gravity and puppyish affectation drew out a cigar, which, with vigorous balancing in the saddle, he managed to light, throwing the flaming match beside the trail.
The Blackguard, greatly amused, pulled up, dismounted, quenched an incipient fire with his foot, then, swinging easily into the saddle, remarked upon certain penalties for setting the country alight.
Mr. Ramsay maintained a scornful silence. Neither this, nor the distant affability, nor the freezing politeness had been quite a success, but there was still a trace of condescension in his voice when he remarked experimentally upon the shot-gun slung in place of a carbine on the horn of La Mancha's saddle.
"Ah, my good fellow, what kind of shooting do you expect?"
"Side-hill hens," the Blackguard waxed serious.
"What are they? We have none at home."
"Oh, in this mountain country the prairie chickens have one leg shorter than the other, so that they can graze along the slopes."