What he did do was to pour that last swallow of hot, black coffee down his throat and then laugh his big haw-haw-haw that could be heard half a mile off.
"Y' oughta kep Applehead to home with the wimmin folks, Luck," he bawled unabashed.

"Night air's bad fer 'im, and the trail ain't goin' to be smooth goin',--not if we gotta ride our hawses straight up, by cripes!" "We haven't got to." Luck balanced his slice of bacon upon the unscorched side of a bannock and glanced indifferently at the rim of rock that was worrying the other.

"I swung down here to make camp off the trail But it's only a half mile or so over this rise that looks level to you, to where the lava ledge peters out so we can ride over it easier than we rode up off the river-flat in that loose sand.

That ease your mind any ?" "Helps some," Big Medicine admitted, his eyes going speculatively to the rise that looked perfectly level.

"I'm willin' to take your word fer it, boss.