“I hope he forgets us before he loads up on alcohol,” says Dirty. “I hate to chase even a shepherd off his job, but I reckon we’re sort of shepherds-in-law, Ike, and we ain’t to blame. Let’s inventory the grub.”
In the grub-box is one can of milk, one can of corn, a little coffee and a quart of raw alcohol.
Dirty nods over the assortment.
“That shepherd was good for fifteen days more, Ike, but the law sure is going to suffer internally. Let’s put up the tent.”
Olaf left too soon to enjoy the rain. She came down plentiful and awful, and demonstrated to us that red flannel ain’t noways water-proof. When the morning came we peers out into a wet world, and tries to dry out enough tobacco to make a smoke. Then cometh a interruption from without:
“Say, you lousy, slew-footed, blat-headed sheep-herder, come out here!”
“Somebody calling you, Dirty,” says I.
“Not me, Ike. Somebody has been getting your mail.”
“Coming out?” yells the voice again.
“You sap-headed snake-hunter!”