“It was—worse luck to me, Sandy!”
“Was it a shepherd?”
“I won’t swear to nothing until I assay meself, but from the feel of me I’d say it was a duck-hunter. Ouch! The divil blazed away at sixty feet, and almost cut the boots off me legs! Bird-shot be the handful!”
“Which way did he go, Micky?”
“How should I know? I always hides me head in a storm of bird-shot.”
“Where in thunder did you get that hard hat?”
“Down be the corral. Did you ever know a shepherd to wear a baked bonnet before, Sandy?”
They talked in low tones for a few moments, and then I heard the one called Sandy say:
“Well, they’re well scattered, and there’s no use hunting in the dark. Next time we’ll pack Winchesters when them —— woollies cross the Mesquite.”
“Sure, and I’ll wear armor next time I hunt for hard-hatted shepherds in the night time,” replied the other, and their voices died away into the night.