The wind kept the circle of buffalo-chips that covered the tires blazing briskly, and by the time the chips were nearly burnt out we could see that the tires were red-hot and knew that they had expanded enough to drop over the canvassed wheels. "Now," resumed Tom, "we'll have to work lively an' make no mislicks when we drop a tire over a wheel so's to get it cooled an' shrunk on afore it burns out the canvas. We'll have to use the pick an' spade an' shovel to lift 'em out o' the fire an' drop 'em over the wheels. Peck, you take the pick, Jack the shovel, an' I'll take the spade. When all's ready I'll give the word, an', Peck, you stick the point of your pick under the top tire an' lift it up a little so's me an' Jack can slip our shovel an' spade under it; then the three of us'll lift the tire out of the fire an' lay it in its place over the wheel an' then go to pourin' water on, an' quick as it's shrunk enough to stay on Jack'll run his shovel handle through the hole in the hub, pry the wheel up, an' with one of you on each side, a-holt of the shovel handle, you can hold the wheel over the pool of water with the lower rim in the water while I spin it 'round, an', with axe in one hand an' hatchet in the other, I'll hammer the tire to its place as it shrinks. Now, do you men 'savvy' all them instructions?" We "savvied," and, following Tom's directions, we soon had both tires nicely reset and shrunk, and it made a very substantial job. It was hot and laborious work and gave us unusually keen appetites for the supper that followed, which Tom prepared, while Jack and I reloaded our wagon. CHAPTER X WHY SATANK KILLED PEACOCK After supper, as we lay on our beds in the tent talking over old times, Jack recalled to my mind the Cheyenne campaign of 1857 and how we used to gather wild plums in the sand-hills near where we were now camped. He spoke also of a man bitten by a rattlesnake near here. This called out a story from Tom, who said: "Speakin' of rattlesnakes reminds me of a little incident that happened out in New Mexico when I was in the old First Dragoons. I was a sergeant, an' we had a new recruit in the company by the name of Nesbit--a mighty quiet sort of a feller that the men called a 'stoughton-bottle,' or a 'bump on a log'--a good man for duty, only he didn't make free with the other men or have much to say to anybody. He had a fashion in hot weather, when he was loungin' about camp off duty, of goin' barefooted, with the bottoms of his pants an' drawers rolled up several inches.