"These yer Navvies ain't yore Buffalo-Bill Sioux," he pointed out to Luck.

"Yuh can't treat 'em the same.

The best we kin look fer is to be left alone--an' I'm tellin' ye straight." Luck gave the squalid huts a long stare and turned away toward the corral and a low shed that served as a stable.

A rusty old mower and a toothless rake and a rickety buckboard stood baking in the sun, and a few stunted hens fluttered away from their approach.

In the corral a mangy pony blinked in dejected slumber; and all the while, the three dogs followed them and barked and yapped and growled, until Pink turned in the saddle with the plain intention of stopping the clamor with a bullet or two.
"Ye better let 'em alone!" Applehead warned sharply, and Pink put up his gun unfired and took down his rope.
"The darned things are getting on my nerves!" he complained, and wheeled suddenly in pursuit of the meanest-looking dog of the three.