"Lucky!" snorted Purdy. "_Lucky!_ Anybody else would 'a' been picked clean by th' ki-yotes before now. For a cussed fool playin' a lone hand he's doin' real well. But we got th' buzzard where we want him!" "Lone hand nothin'," grunted Fleming. "Didn't he have that drunken Long Pete helpin' him?" Purdy growled in his throat and gently rubbed his numbed arm. "There's another. It just missed th' fire. Say! _That's_ what he's aimin' at!" "Mebby he is," snorted Fleming; "but if he is he's got a cussed bad aim. Judgin' from where they landed, I bets he was aimin' 'em all at me. I got four bits that says he wasn't aimin' at no fire when he thrun them little ones. One of 'em come so close to my head that I could hear th' white-winged angels a-singin'." "'White-winged angels a-singin'!'" snorted Purdy. "H--l of a chance _you_'ll ever have of hearin' white angels sing. Yore spiritual ears'll hear steam a-sizzlin', an' th' moans of th' damned; an' yore spiritual red nose will smell sulphur till th' stars drop out." "I'm backin' Purdy," said the distant voice. "They don't let no skunk perfume get past th' Golden Gates." "They won't let any of you in hell," jeered a clear voice from above. "You'll swing between th' two worlds like pendulums in eternity. Cow-thieves are barred." A profane duet was his answer, and he listened closely as Holbrook's voice was heard. "Say!" he growled, killing mosquitoes with both hands and sitting up behind his bowlder. "Can't you hold yore pow-wow somewhere else? Want him to heave rocks all night? How can I sleep with all that racket goin' on? Yo're near as bad as these singin' blood-suckers; an' who was it that kicked me in th' ribs just now?" "If you wouldn't sprawl out in a natural path an' take up th' earth you wouldn't get kicked in th' ribs!" snapped Fleming. "Yo're a fine pair of doodle-bugs," sneered Holbrook, sighing wearily as he arose. He lowered his voice. "Here he is over this end of th' trail an' givin' you a fine chance to sneak up an' bushwhack him; an' all you do is dodge rocks, cuss yore fool luck, an' kick folks in th' ribs. Don't you know an opportunity when you see one?" "Is _this_ an opportunity?" mumbled Purdy sarcastically, rubbing his arm and fighting mosquitoes. "With that fire showing up everything for rods?" softly asked Fleming with heavy irony. "Who's been puttin' loco weed in _yore_ grub?" "'Tain't loco weed," growled Purdy. "It's redeye. He drinks it like it was water." "No such luck," retorted Holbrook; "not while yo're around. It ain't no opportunity if yo're aimin' to have a pe-rade past th' fire," he continued in a harsh whisper; "but it shore was a good one if you had cut down through th' canyon a couple of rods below th' end of th' trail, an' then climbed up to it an' stuck close to th' wall. You could 'a' been up there now, a-layin' for him when he went back on guard. It's cussed near as simple as you are."