"Got any cigarettes?" asked Hopalong.

`Yu poor sheep!" said Pete, and turning back to work he drove a .45
into a yellow moccasin.

Hopalong began to itch and he saw that he was near an ant hill. Then
the cactus at his right boomed out mournfully and a hole appeared in
it. He fired at the smoke and a yell informed him that he had made a
hit. "Go `way!" he complained as a green fly buzzed past his nose.
Then he scratched each leg with the foot of the other and squirmed
incessantly, kicking out with both feet at once. A warning metallic
whir-r-r! on his left caused to yank them in again, and turning his
head quickly he the pleasure of lopping off the head of a rattlesnake
with his Colt's.

"Glad yu wasn't a copperhead," he exclaimed. "Somebody had ought `a'
shot that fool Noah. Blast the ants!" He drowned with a jet of tobacco
juice a Gila monster that was staring at him and took a savage delight
in its frantic efforts to bury itself.

Soon he heard Skinny swear and he sung out: "What's the matter,
Skinny? Git plugged again?"

"Naw, bugs-ain't they mean?" Plaintively asked his friend. "They
ain't none over here. What kind of bugs?"

"Sufferin' Moses, I ain't no bugologist! All kinds!"

But Hopalong got it at last. He had found tobacco and rolled a