“Well, how was it?” persisted the Ornithologist, hoping to learn of some mysterious Indian remedy.
“Well,” said Jim, stretching out his tremendous arms like a great bear, “I held him tight and Tin here burned the place out. It took two matches and he yelled somethin’ terrible. I told him we were savin’ his life, but the fool said he would rather die of snake-bite than be burned to death. You wouldn’t suppose a grown man would make such a fuss over two little matches.”
Finally, we reached the Den, a ledge of rocks near the top of the mountain, where for some unknown reason all the rattlesnakes for miles around were accustomed to hibernate during the winter and to remain for some weeks in the late spring before scattering through the valley. The Ornithologist and I fell unobtrusively to the rear, while the dauntless Pan led the van with a crotched stick. Suddenly Jim thrust one foot up into the air like a toe-dancer, and pirouetted with amazing rapidity on the other. He had been in the very act of stepping over a small huckleberry-bush, when he noted under its lee a rattlesnake in coil, about the size of a peck measure—as pretty a death-trap as was ever set in the woods. By the time I got there, Jim had pinned the hissing heart-shaped head down with his forked stick, while the bloated, five-foot body was thrashing through the air in circles, the rattles whirring incessantly.
“Grab him just back of the stick,” panted Jim, bearing down with all his weight, “and put him in the bag.”
I paused.
“You’re not scared, are you?” he inquired; while Tin, who had hurried up with a gunny-sack, regarded me reproachfully.
“Certainly not,” I assured him indignantly, “but I don’t want to be selfish. Let Tin do it.”
“No,” said Jim firmly, “you’re company. Tin can pick up rattlesnakes any day.”
“Well, how about my friend?” I rejoined weakly.
The Ornithologist, who had been watching the scene from the far background, spoke up for himself.