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"Me buy 'm grub," Carluk said, as he got the pouch open and drew out a large chunk of heavy metal. Others were following his example, and on every side appeared similar chunks. Shorty stared. "Great Jeminey!" he cried. "Copper! Raw, red copper! An' they think it's gold!" "Him gold," Carluk assured them confidently, his quick comprehension having caught the gist of Shorty's exclamation.
Shorty threw up his hands with a yelp and collapsed. He had been struck in the head by a heavy revolver. "Some throwin', Dave. Much obliged," said Hart. "We'll disarm this bird and pack him back to the derrick." They did. Shorty almost wept with rage and pain and impotent malice. He cursed steadily and fluently.
In an assault men follow the line of least resistance when they reach the barbed wire. These apparent openings are V-shaped, with the open end toward the enemy. The attacking troops think they see a clear passageway. They rush into the trap, and when it is filled with struggling men, machine guns are turned upon them, and, as Shorty said, "You got 'em cold." That, at least, was the presumption.
So he cooked as good a breakfast for the boys as he could prepare from his materials, woke up Shorty and put him in charge, and an hour before daybreak turned the horse's head toward the pontoon bridge, and started him on a lively trot. He had only fairly started when a stern voice called out to him from a large tent: "Here, you, stop that trotting. What do you mean?
The average pace of the stampeders on the smooth going was three miles and a half an hour. Smoke and Shorty were doing four and a half, though sometimes they broke into short runs and went faster. "I'm going to travel your feet clean off, Shorty," Smoke challenged. "Huh! I can hike along on the stumps an' wear the heels off your moccasins. Though it ain't no use.
"You would have busted laughin' if you'd seen him at the Circle Y Bar roundup the way I seen him. Shorty ain't so bad with a rope. He's always talkin' about what he can do and how he can daub a rope on anything that's got horns. He ain't so bad, but then he ain't so good, either. Specially, he ain't so good at ridin' you know what bowed legs he's got, Kate?" "I remember, Buck."
Shorty explained this by saying that allowance was made for the amount which would be consumed by the rats and the blue-bottle flies. There were, in fact, millions of flies. They settled in great swarms along the walls of the trenches, which were filled to the brim with warm light as soon as the sun had climbed a little way up the sky.
Shorty took the small white envelope from the Orderly's hand, and looked at it curiously. Who could it be from? It resembled somewhat the letters that once came from Bad Ax, Wis., but then again it was very different. He studied the handwriting, which was entirely strange to him.
"That seems convincing," said Shorty. "Then look at this," said the gambler, producing another paper. It read: "Deer Bat: Got yore $100 all right, but doant send by that man again. He's shaky, and talks too much. Bring it yourself, or put it in an envelope directed to me, & drop it in my box. Yores, "Billings."
Shorty did the same, trying to imitate what he had seen. The car was lurching, and the grasp was imperfect. The man seemed only half satisfied. Shorty saw this, and with his customary impudence determined to put the onus of recognition on the other side. He drew his hand back as if disappointed, and turned a severe look upon the other man. "Where are you from?" asked the first-comer.
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