observant worthy nodded and threw a double handful of cartridges, one
by one, to the patient and unrelenting Buck, who filled his gun and
piled the few remaining ones up at his side. "Th' lives of mice and
men gang aft all wrong," he remarked at random.

"Th' son-of-a-gun's talkin' Shakespeare," marveled Hopalong.
"Satiate any, Buck?" he asked as that worthy settled down to await his
chance.

"Two," he replied, "Shorty an' another. Plenty damn hot down here,"
he complained. A spurt of alkali dust stung his face, but the hand
that made it never made another. "Three," he called. "How many,
Hoppy?"

"One. That's four. Wonder if th' others got any?"

"Pete said Skinny got one," replied the intent Buck.

"Th' son-of-a-gun, he never said nothin' about it, an' me a fillin'
his ornery paws with smokin'." Hopalong was indignant.

"Bet yu ten we don't git `em afore dark," he announced.

"Got yu. Go yu ten more I gits another," promptly responded Buck.

"That's a shore cinch. Make her twenty."

"She is."

"Yu'll have to square it with Skinny, he shore wanted Shorty plum'