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There's been firin' over there all night," answered one of the men. "I guess it's been kinder warm over that way. But I ain't heard any shootin' for some time." "Young Bennet is over there, and if the men needed anything they would send him for it," answered Silas. "I'll send some food and water. Anything else?" "Powder. We're nigh out of powder," replied the man addressed.
"This is something like," he said, luxuriously. "Wot a 'evinly clear drop for a bullet acrost! How much d'you make it, Mulvaney?" "Seven hunder. Maybe a trifle less, bekaze the air's so thin." Wop! Wop! Wop! went a volley of musketry on the rear face of the north hill. "Curse them Mixed Pickles firin' at nothin'! They'll scare arf the country."
I was in a great quandary now what to do, for I couldn't concoct in my mind, in the hurry, any good reason for firin' off my piece. But they say necessity's the mother of invention; so just as I was giving it up and clinchin' my teeth to bide the worst o't and take what should come, a sudden thought came into my head.
Phil knew the voice, and said with a faint smile: "Do you think they'd plant me with municipal honours honours to pardners?" "We'll see to that, Phil," said Mr. Devlin from behind the clergyman. Phil recognised the voice. "You think that nobody'll kick at making it official?" "Not one, Phil." "And maybe they wouldn't mind firin' a volley Lights out, as it were: and blow the big whistle?
Lost two of our best men, scalped at Bloody Creek, and had to drop a dozen redskins in their tracks, me and another man, lyin' flat in er wagon and firin' under the flaps o' the canvas. I don't know ez they waz wuth it," he added in gloomy retrospect; "but I've got to get rid of 'em, I reckon, somehow, afore I work over to Deadman's Gulch again."
"One day, late in the fall, Matthew harnessed his horses in a hay-riggin', and drove off to the bog, five miles away, to haul in his winter's firin'. He wrought all day, getting the dried turfs into a pile, and had just half loaded his team, when a stranger, decently dressed, came up to him, and asked if his name was Matthew Collins.
You're well out av that fancy-firin' gang, Jock. Stay here. 'Bin firin' at the bloomin' wind in the bloomin' tree-tops, said Ortheris with a chuckle. 'I'll show you some firin' later on. They wallowed in the pine-needles, and the sun warmed them where they lay. The Mixed Pickles ceased firing, and returned to camp, and left the wood to a few scared apes.
Suddenly Albright, looking back across his shoulders, moved like a cat and picked up something from ten feet away. He held it on his palm an empty shell, such as fitted a .44 Smith and Wesson. He scanned it minutely, turned it over this way and that, looked at it fore and aft. "Firin' pin's nicked," he said, "an' a leetle off centre." For ten minutes the thing went from hand to hand.
Kenset, where did you get this gun?" But Kenset did not speak. His shoulders trembled, his dark head was bowed to the earth. "Answer me," said Billy, "for as sure's I live, this here's Buck Courtrey's favourite gun the gun with the untrue firin' pin. Look here." And he held it toward Tharon who leaned near to look. True enough.
"Yes, here are signs of his trail," said Tom Ross. "I'd bet my scalp that he's got a dozen uv these snares scattered around through the valley, an' that he's livin' on the fat uv the land without ever firin' a shot. Stop, do you smell that?" They stopped and sniffed the air inquiringly. A faint, delicate aroma tickled the nostrils of all three. It was soothing and pleasant, and they sniffed again.
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