“He tried to yank her off an' she biffed him,” replied Wilson.
“That Riggs is jest daffy or plain locoed,” said Snake, in an aside to Moze.
“Boss, you mean plain cussed. Mark my words, he'll hoodoo this outfit. Jim was figgerin' correct.”
“Hoodoo—” cursed Anson, under his breath.
Many hands made quick work. In a few moments a fire was burning brightly, water was boiling, pots were steaming, the odor of venison permeated the cool air. The girl had at last slipped off her saddle to the ground, where she sat while Riggs led the horse away. She sat there apparently forgotten, a pathetic droop to her head.
Wilson had taken an ax and was vigorously wielding it among the spruces. One by one they fell with swish and soft crash. Then the sliding ring of the ax told how he was slicing off the branches with long sweeps. Presently he appeared in the semi-darkness, dragging half-trimmed spruces behind him. He made several trips, the last of which was to stagger under a huge burden of spruce boughs. These he spread under a low, projecting branch of an aspen. Then he leaned the bushy spruces slantingly against this branch on both sides, quickly improvising a V-shaped shelter with narrow aperture in front. Next from one of the packs he took a blanket and threw that inside the shelter. Then, touching the girl on the shoulder, he whispered:
“When you're ready, slip in there. An' don't lose no sleep by worryin', fer I'll be layin' right here.”
He made a motion to indicate his length across the front of the narrow aperture.
“Oh, thank you! Maybe you really are a Texan,” she whispered back.
“Mebbe,” was his gloomy reply.