"Shore they air," grunted Birdsall's partner. "Enoch don't reckon nothin's no good less'n it war foaled in th' Revolutionary War, an' has got whiskers like a Mormon bishop. Fust he war dead sot ag'in steamboats; said they war flyin' in th' face o' Providence an' wouldn't work, nohow. Then he said it war plumb foolish ter try ter take waggins inter Santer Fe. Next he war dead sot ag'in mules fer anythin' but packin'. Now he's cold ter caps an' says flints war made 'special by th' Lord fer ter strike fire with--_but_, he rides on th' steamboats when he gits th' chanct; he's taken waggins clean ter Chihuahua, drivin' mules ter 'em; an' he's sorter hankerin' fer ter use caps, though he won't admit it open. Let him alone an' watch him try ter borrer yer new pistol when th' Injuns try ter stampede th' animals. He's a danged old fool in his talk, but you jest keep an eye on him. Thar, I've said my say." "An' a danged long say it war!" snorted Enoch, belligerently. "It stands ter reason that thar pistol can't shoot 'em out o' one bar'l plumb down the dead center of another _every_ time! An' suppose ye want ter use a double charge o' powder, whar ye goin' ter put it in them danged little holes? Suppose yer caps hang fire--what then, I want ter know?" "S'posin' th' wind blows th' primin' out o' yer pan?" queried Zeb. "S'posin' ye lose your flint? S'posin' yer powder ain't no good? S'posin' ye ram down th' ball fust, like ye did that time them Crows tried ter lift our cache. Fine mess ye nigh made o' that! Onct ye start thar ain't no end o' s'posin', nohow. Caps is all right, _I_ use 'em!" "_He_ uses 'em!" chuckled Enoch. "Ain't that a sensible answer? Caps is all right, if _he_ uses 'em! Danged if he don't make me laugh: but he's a good ol' beaver, at that, Zeb is. As fur rammin' down th' ball fust, that time; he never told ye about how he swallered a hull mouthful o' balls when Singin' Fox sent a arrer through his cap, did he?" Zeb looked a little self-conscious. "Beaver's shore gittin' scarce," he said. "Thar's a passel o' Oregoners rendyvouin' out ter Round Grove," said Hank. "If we're goin' with 'em we better jine 'em purty quick." Tom shook his head. "I'm aimin' fer th' Arkansas this trip. Goin' ter try it onct more." Hank's jaw dropped. "Thar!" he snorted. "Kin ye beat that?" "Glad ter hear it," said Jim Ogden. "We'll be with ye fur's th' Crossin'; but ain't ye gamblin', Tom?" "Armijo shore will run up th' flags an' order out his barefoot army," said Hank, grimly, "if he larns o' it. An' he'll mebby need th' army, too." "He'll larn o' it," declared Birdsall. "Thar's a passel o' greasers goin' over th' trail with us--an' shore as shootin' some o' 'em will go ahead with th' news arter we reach th' Cimarron. Don't be a danged fool, Tom; you better go 'long th' Platte with th' emigrants."