“Blew—aw, what do we care. I reckon they heard th’ noise and hit fer th’ hills. What do we care for th’ sheep, eh?”
“Blankets gone,” groaned Zeb. “Nothin’ to eat and no place to sleep. Now mebby you’ll agree with me that this ain’t no white man’s job, Ricky.”
“Man size, anyway,” replied Ricky, sitting down and rolling a cigaret.
Zeb watched him in silence until the smoke was made and then an idea seemed to strike him:
“How much smokin’ yuh got on yore person, Ricky?”
Ricky held up a limp sack containing about two more cigarets.
“And I ain’t got uh bit,” stated Zeb. “She was all in that de-funct grub-box.”
“Well,” remarked the philosophical Ricky, “they can’t blow our camp up no more. It ain’t as though they had only blew up part of it. Golly, Zeb, I’m shore hungry! What about uh little supper, eh? Give me yore gun and I’ll see if I can pick uh fat blatter in th’ dark while you builds uh little fire, eh?”
“She tastes to me like it was uh sinful waste uh lead,” stated Ricky about an hour later, as he raked a piece of half-cooked meat out of the coals. “Doggone it, Zeb, uh sheep ought to be raised fer wool exclusive. As uh tender morsel I opines that she runs uh dead heat with owls and rawhide. Pass th’ salt please.”
Zeb threw a piece of smoking meat at Ricky’s head and rolled over on the ground.