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Updated: May 8, 2025
Striding to where Buck stood, he placed his hands on his hips and searched the foreman's eyes. Buck smiled: "Yu ain't mad, are yu?" He asked. Hopalong relaxed: "No, but blame near it." Red and the others grabbed him from the rear, and when he had been "buffaloed" into good humor he threw them from him, laughed and waved his hand toward the bar: "Come up, yu sons-of-guns.
And they appealed to me, several speaking at once, like a concerted piece at the opera: "Say, do you believe babies go to hell?" "Ah, of course he don't." "There ain't no hereafter, anyway." "Ain't there?" "Who told yu'?" "Same man as told the preacher we were all a sifted set of sons-of-guns." "Well, I'm going to stay a Mormon." "Well, I'm going to quit fleeing from temptation." "that's so!
"You must be cramped from sitting still so long. I'll get lunch ready." Madeline got down, glad to stretch her limbs, and began to stroll about. She heard Stillwell throw the harness on the ground and slap his horses. "Roll, you sons-of-guns!" he said. Both horses bent their fore legs, heaved down on their sides, and tried to roll over.
"Th' sons-of-guns," said Hopalong, "let's go an' get 'em," he suggested, turning to Buck, who nodded a smiling assent. "Oh, what's the hurry?" Asked Frenchy, seeing his projected game slipping away into the uncertain future and happy in the thought that he would be avenged on the O-Bar-O outfit. "They'll be there till to-morrow noon they's waitin' for their cookie, who's goin' with them."
As a matter of fact, he left town night before last with two-thirds of the money we'd pulled out of a pocket up on Silver Creek, in the company of two half-breed Injuns, a Chinaman, and four more sons-of-guns not classified, all in such a state of beastly intoxication that their purpose, route, and destination are matters of the wildest conjecture.
He had not even taken the hatchet, and he was going in the direction in which the disturbance had died away. Ten minutes later he came back chuckling. "The sons-of-guns, they got my goat all right. I'll be scairt of my own shadow next. What was they? Huh! You couldn't guess in a thousand years. A bunch of half-grown calves, an' they was worse scairt than us."
The sun became a ball of molten fire and the sand flies annoyed them incessantly, but still they sat and waited, silent and apologetic. Hopalong finally arose, reached for his sombrero, and, finding it gone, swore long and earnestly at the scene its loss brought before him. He walked over to his horse and, leaping into the saddle, turned and faced his friends. "Yu old sons-of-guns," he said.
"That," said Andy, "makes us out such dirty, low-down sons-of-guns we'd have to climb a tree to look a snake in the eye, but it's got the grain of truth that'll make it go down. We DON'T love this farming graft, and the Old Man knows it. He's heard us kicking often enough. That's where it'll git him.
"I reckon she was doubtful of him from the start. Took him to the mount'ins to experiment, where they'd not have interruption," said the Virginian. "Talking of mountains," said Tommy, "this range here used to be a great place for Indians till we ran 'em out with Terry. Pumped lead into the red sons-of-guns." "You bet," said Lin.
Almost at the same instant there was a sharp "Crack!" from the dory behind us. "The blooming sons-of-guns!" exclaimed Spike; "they're firing at us!" "Firing?" "Yes; a rifle. Look there!" There was a puff of smoke floating away from the dory. "And see that little hole in the sail. That's where the bullet went through." Spike and I dropped into the cock-pit, and crouched below the seats.
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