“Ricky,” he murmured, “if I ever gits my strength back again—I hates to do it, Ricky—but I’m goin’ to massacree you.”
Ricky got up painfully and built a little fire.
“She seems more homelike thataway, Zeb. If I passes out I shore don’t want to do it in th’ dark. Judas Priest, I wish I had uh smoke.”
“Old man Lute was uh goldarned brute, and he couldn’t git his longhorns up th’ goldarned chute,” sang Zeb, in a low mournful voice. “I wonder if they’re bluffin’ or if they really means to hold uh party down here tonight?”
“I ain’t got uh danged thing to wear,” wailed Ricky. “My tailor done told me this mornin’: ‘Mr. Saunders, I can’t possibley git that swaller-tailed——’”
“Sh-h-h-h!” cautioned Zeb, sitting up and grasping Ricky by the sleeve. “Listen! Hear anything?”
A faint tinkle like the light tap of metal on stone sounded from up the washout, and was immediately followed by a smothered exclamation.
Zeb rolled over and slid feet first down the washout and pulled Ricky with him just as a bullet ploughed through their little fire and a streak of orange flame flashed further up the gully. Zeb ducked low and started up the washout in the direction of the gun-flash.
“Where yuh goin’?” whispered Ricky, trailing along behind.
“Keep down low,” commanded Zeb. “We got to git in behind ’em. Come on and keep quiet.”