A warning metallic
whir-r-r! on his left caused to yank them in again, and turning his
head quickly he the pleasure of lopping off the head of a rattlesnake
with his Colt's.
"Glad yu wasn't a copperhead," he exclaimed. "Somebody had ought `a'
shot that fool Noah. Blast the ants!" He drowned with a jet of tobacco
juice a Gila monster that was staring at him and took a savage delight
in its frantic efforts to bury itself.
Soon he heard Skinny swear and he sung out: "What's the matter,
Skinny? Git plugged again?"
"Naw, bugs-ain't they mean?" Plaintively asked his friend. "They
ain't none over here. What kind of bugs?"
"Sufferin' Moses, I ain't no bugologist! All kinds!"
But Hopalong got it at last. He had found tobacco and rolled a
cigarette, and in reaching for a match exposed his shoulder to a shot
that broke his collar bone. Skinny's rifle cracked in reply and the
offending brave rolled out from behind a rock. From the fuss emanating
from Hopalong's direction Skinny knew that his neighbor had been hit.
"Don't yu care, Hoppy. I got th' cuss," he said consolingly.
"Where'd he git yu?" he asked.
"In di' heart, yu pie-faced nuisance. Come over here an' corral this
cussed bandage an' gimme some water," snapped the injured man.
Skinny wormed his way through the thorny chaparral and bound up the
shoulder. "Anything else?" he asked.
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