“But—but—” faltered Marion.
“Stay where yuh are,” cautioned Hashknife.
He ran into the bunk-house, and came out in a minute, stuffing cartridges into the loading-gate of one of the ranch rifles.
“Oh, be careful about showing yourself,” cautioned Marion.
“Thanks,” grinned Hashknife.
He moved along the patio wall, slipped out through the gate, while Sleepy took a rifle from the bunk-house, swearing disgustedly over the fact that Hashknife had taken all the cartridges.
“It came from the hill back of us,” said Marion. “Poor old Apollo!”
“Yeah, he’s a goner,” said Sleepy softly. “Well, that’s about all yuh ever could do to make him die. If old age was ever goin’ to kill him, he’d ’a’ died forty years ago.”
There were tears in Marion’s eyes as she looked at the sprawling figure of the ancient burro. Worse than useless, he had always been a part of the Double Bar 8. It was the razing of a landmark.
Suddenly the ancient one shuddered, lifted its misshapen head and goggled foolishly. Then it got slowly to unsteady legs, staggered a few feet, thrust out its head, opened a cavernous mouth, which showed a few crooked teeth, and brayed defiance to all rifle-shooting bushwhackers.