A little below him, the Native Son was flinging rocks at a rattlesnake with the vicious precision of frank abhorrence.

Down in the canon bottom Big Medicine and Pink were holding the horses on the shady side of the gorge, and the smoke of their cigarettes floated lazily upward with the jumbled monotone of their voices.
Andy, glancing across at Luck, waved his hand and sat down on a rock that was shaded by a high bowlder; reached mechanically for his "makings" and with his feet far apart and his elbows on his thighs, wearily rolled a cigarette.
"How about it, boss ?" he asked, scarcely raising his voice above the ordinary conversational tone, though a hard fifteen-minutes' climb up and down separated the two; "they never came up the arroyo, if you ask ME.

My side don't show a hoof track from where we left the boys down below." "Mine either," Luck replied, by the power of suggestion seating himself and reaching for his own tobacco and papers.

"We might as well work back down and connect with Applehead.

Wish there was some sign of water in this darn gulch.