“I tell yuh somethin’s wrong,” insisted Ricky. “That sheep jist turned uh flip-flop and he ain’t got up since.”
“Mebby that’s th’ way sheeps do,” remarked Zeb. “Yuh see me and you ain’t been nursin’ sheep but uh short time and we ain’t hep to all their proclivities.”
Ricky sat down and picked up his cards. “I’d shore like to know what hit that sheep. Honest, he jist——”
Sping!
A bullet ricocheted off the rock they were using for a card-table and whined off down across the foothills.
“Duck!” yelled Zeb, as he went crabwise down the opposite side of the rock and slid around behind the stunted pine tree which had shaded their seven-up game.
“Come down here, yuh blamed mutt!” he stormed at Ricky, who sat there looking at the scratch on the rock where the bullet had glanced. “Ain’t yuh got no sense a tall?”
“What was it, Zeb?” inquired Ricky innocently, as he slid down beside Zeb and pulled out his papers and tobacco.
“Somebody was shootin’ at us,” stated Zeb. “And danged good shootin’ too if anybody should ask yuh.”
Ricky shaped his cigaret and fumbled for a match.