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"Plenty hot down there?" he pleasantly inquired, and as he received no answer he tried again. "Better save some of them cartridges fer some other time, Buck." Buck was sending 45-70's into the shattered window with a precision that presaged evil to any of the defenders who were rash enough to try to gain the other end of the room.
"Nope." "Kin yu smoke 'em?" he yelled, indignantly. "Shore nuff," placidly replied the unruffled Johnny. "Billy wants some .45-70's." Hopalong gasped. "Don't he want my gun, too?" "Nope. Got a better one. Hurry up, he'll git mad." Hopalong was a very methodical person. He was the only one of his crowd to carry a second cartridge strap. It hung over his right shoulder and rested on his left hip.
On a low, barren knoll we cached that day eighty rounds of .45-70 cartridges and 300 rounds of .22's, George marking the spot with a circle of stakes. That left us 120 rounds of .45-70's and 500 rounds of .22's. It had become strictly necessary to lighten our packs, and we had begun to drop odds and ends every day. Together with a yellowlegs George had shot, it seasoned a pot of pea soup.
"Pies like mother used to make," he announced to the loft as he slipped the magazine full of .45-70'S. "An' pills like popper used to take," he continued when he had lowered the level of the water in his flask. He rolled a cigarette and tossed the match into the air, extinguishing it by a shot from his Colt. "Got any cigarettes, Hoppy?" said a voice from below.
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