Then the Native Son, crouched down between a rock and a clump of brush, turned his head to see what his horse was looking at, back whence they had come.
"Look behind you, Luck," he advised with more calmness than one would expect of a man in his straits.

"They're back in the pines, too." "Fight 'em off--and take care that your backs don't show to those babies on the rim-rocks," he ordered instantly, thrusting his glasses into their case and snatching his rifle from its boot on the saddle.

"They won't tackle coming across that bare hollow, even if they can get down into it without breaking their necks.

Happy, lead your horse in here between these rocks where mine is.

Bud, see if you can get the pack-horses over there outa sight among those bushes and rocks.