“Gol dang ’em! Gol dang ’em! Hope I drownded the whole mess of pups. Hope I leaded up all that didn’t drown. Half-witted horse-wranglers. No brains! Race right into me and my load of dynamite. Too bad it didn’t bust and blow ’em all to ——! Team runs away and leaves me on the wrong side. Gol dang——”
“Wick Smith, throw up your hands,” says I sweet-like.
He drops his gun and grabs atmosphere.
“Toss that rifle into the brush,” says I, and he reaches down like a nice little feller and obeys.
I takes it and throws it further into the woods, and then I walks out to him.
“Hello, Wick,” says I. “How’s things in Piperock?”
“Tolable, Hen. How’s the Cross J these nice days? Where’s your gun?”
“Lost it in the river,” says I.
We looks at each other for a while, and then he says—