“Low it is.” Red settled himself to work, fired, and pumped a cartridge while he watched results.
“What makes you sing, eh, Blackguard? I’m in a funk, I am—” he fired again.
“Was I singing?” La Mancha let drive at a smoke puff. “I bagged a buck Indian just now—aim low—got ’im.
“Carry him reverently, gently, slow—
Pace by the trunnions with patient tread;
Over the drifts of the rolling snow,
With arms reversed for the Dead.”
“Nice and cheerful, ain’t yer!” cried Red sarcastically, but la Mancha enjoyed himself.
“Little we thought of him while he shared
All that was worst in the long campaign;