“I’m gittin’ sorta finicky myself,” agreed Zeb. “I don’t seem to look upon uh piece uh sheep meat th’ way uh hungry man should.” A continuous repast of mutton and salt is almost sure to make even the best of digestive apparatus go awry. They had eaten it roasted in the coals, baked in clay, boiled in the water bucket and fried on a piece of the sheet-iron stove which had survived the explosion. The morning meal had been thrown away untasted. That day they laid in the shade of the lone pine tree, too miserable to even play seven-up. At dinner-time they grinned and pulled up another notch on their belts. Both of them were inveterate cigaret-smokers—or rather had been until, as Ricky remarked: “Dynamite is uh sure cure fer th’ cigaret habit, Zeb. She cures but she don’t remove th’ cravin’.” That night they wended their weary way back to the bed ground and left the sheep out on the range. They had decided that there was no reason for bringing in the herd. If the cattlemen were bent on chasing them out of the country, why not let them have the trouble of rounding them up? “Want some boiled mutton?” asked Ricky, after they had thrown their tired bodies down on the ground above the spring. Zeb sat up and reached for a rock but the effort was too much and he flopped down again. “Ricky,” he murmured, “if I ever gits my strength back again—I hates to do it, Ricky—but I’m goin’ to massacree you.” Ricky got up painfully and built a little fire. “She seems more homelike thataway, Zeb. If I passes out I shore don’t want to do it in th’ dark. Judas Priest, I wish I had uh smoke.” “Old man Lute was uh goldarned brute, and he couldn’t git his longhorns up th’ goldarned chute,” sang Zeb, in a low mournful voice. “I wonder if they’re bluffin’ or if they really means to hold uh party down here tonight?” “I ain’t got uh danged thing to wear,” wailed Ricky. “My tailor done told me this mornin’: ‘Mr. Saunders, I can’t possibley git that swaller-tailed——’” “_Sh-h-h-h!_” cautioned Zeb, sitting up and grasping Ricky by the sleeve. “Listen! Hear anything?” A faint tinkle like the light tap of metal on stone sounded from up the washout, and was immediately followed by a smothered exclamation. Zeb rolled over and slid feet first down the washout and pulled Ricky with him just as a bullet ploughed through their little fire and a streak of orange flame flashed further up the gully. Zeb ducked low and started up the washout in the direction of the gun-flash. “Where yuh goin’?” whispered Ricky, trailing along behind. “Keep down low,” commanded Zeb. “We got to git in behind ’em. Come on and keep quiet.” They sneaked along for a few hundred yards when Zeb stopped and peered over the bank. “I got it all figgered out, Ricky. Them jaspers never walked over to th’ party. It’s all of seven miles to th’ nearest cow-camp. I’m figgerin’ that they—look out! Git down low!” “What yuh see?”