“Well! we gotter have some o’ that buffalo meat—that’s all there is to it.”
“If those boys kill one,” sneered Steve.
“Oh, they’ll kill one all right,” said Tony, with confidence. “You’ve seen what they can do with a gun—’specially that Chet Havens. He’s a crackajack!”
“Oh, I see,” grumbled the other man. “Confound ’em! If it wasn’t for their guns I’d drive ’em out of the country easy.”
“Well, wait till we can load up with some grub before taking the back track; that’s what I say,” growled Tony, puffing on his eternal pipe.
“You think altogether too much of your stomach, Tony,” complained the other man.
“Why shouldn’t I think of it? Nobody else is goin’ to,” declared the hairy one, philosophically. “Tony Traddles has had to look after his own self since he was knee high to a hoppergrass. Ain’t nobody cared a continental for him—no, sir! Old man Havens chucked him out’n his job like he was a dawg.”
“And I should think you’d be sore on this son of his, for it,” observed Steve.
“Huh! I try ter be. But them boys are such smart rascals! They kin shoot an’ foller a trail, an’ all that. They are free-handed, too.”
“There we get right back to Tony’s stomach again,” snarled the other man. “You make me sick!”