"Damn the sunrise," the other retorted. He would have damned his
tormentor had he dared. "I do not wish to be insulted."

"Listen to that coyote," replied the careless one, ignoring his
companion's rising anger. "Listen to him yip-yapping over there on the
ridge. There sits a shining example of bucolic joy and indifference to
local annoyances. Consider the humble coyote, Boston, and learn wisdom.
Of course, a coyote doesn't know a whole lot, but he does recognize a
good thing when he sees it. His appreciation of a sunrise is always
exuberant. Ever since that coyote's been big enough to rustle his own
jack-rabbits he's howled at a lovely full moon, and if he's ever missed
his sun-up cheer it's because something he ate the night before didn't
agree with him."

"Sir," snapped the irascible one, "you're a trifler. You're--you're
--a--"

"Say it," soothed the student of nature.

"Oh, damn it," rasped his victim, "talk business. This is a business
trip, not a rehearsal for a comic opera. Talk sense."

"Well, all right--since you insist," drawled the other, smiling
brightly. "In the first place, after this morning you will permit your
whiskers to grow. Out here water is too precious to waste it shaving
every morning. I suggested that point last night, but you ignored my
polite hint. I hate to appear boorish, but I must remind you that these
jacks are mine, that the four little kegs of water that they're
carrying are mine, that this _mozo_--I beg your pardon--that this
Indian is mine, and lastly--forgive me if I ascend once more into the