"Had a bunch uh Navvies hangin' t' our heels like tumbleweed--'n' we been doin' some RIDIN', now, I'm a tellin' ye! 'F Lite, here, hadn't kep' droppin' one now an' then fur the rest t' devour, I calc'late we'd bin et up, a mile er two back!" Lite looked up from shoving more cartridges into his rifle-magazine.

"If we hadn't had a real, simon-pure go-getter to boss the job," he drawled, "I reckon all the shooting I did wouldn't have cut any ice.

Ain't that right, boys ?" Pink, resting his rifle in a niche of the boulder and moving it here and there trying to fix his sights on a certain green sweater back in the woods that he had glimpsed a minute before, nodded assent.

"You're durn tootin' it's right!" he testified.
Weary looked shining-eyed at Applehead's purple face.

"Sure, that's right!" he emphasized.