ht about that for a while, sitting at the table staring at the
little pile of cartridges. He was going to be run out of here sooner or
later, he might as well pick his own time, and now seemed about as good
as any, while the Harn was busy exploring and hunting.

He sighed and got up to rummage around the cabin. The snakeproof pants
had done real good, but he did not trust them entirely. There was some
sheet iron laid over the ceiling joists, which he had brought up to make
new stoves for his line camps. He got this down and cut it into small
pieces. Around the edges he drilled a number of small holes. Then he got
out his mending gear and began sewing the plates, in an overlapping
pattern, to the legs of the snakeproof pants and to an old pair of
moccasins. When he finished, he was pretty well armored as far as his
crotch. It was an awkward outfit to move around in, but as long as he
was able to stay on his feet, he figured he would be reasonably secure
from the stingers. As for the bigger ones, he would just have to depend
on seeing them first, and the .450.

Next, he needed some gasoline. The fuel cache was under a big spruce,
about twenty yards from the door. He made the round of his loopholes.
There were no Harn in sight, they were apparently ignoring him for now.
He slipped out the door, closing it securely behind him, and started for
the cache.

As he stepped out, a stinger came from under the sill log and lashed at
his foot. He killed it with the ax beside the door, saving a cartridge,
and went on, walking fairly fast but planting his feet carefully, a
little awkward in his armor. He picked up a five-gallon can of gas, a
quart of motor oil, and the twenty feet of garden hose he used for
siphoning gas down the bank to the boat. On the way back, another
stinger hit him. He kicked it aside, not wanting to set down his load,
and it came at him again and again. Just outside the door, he finally
caught it under a heel and methodically trampled it to death. Then he
snatched open the door, tossed the stuff inside, and pulled it quickly
shut behind him.

So far, good enough.

He lashed the gas can solidly to his packboard, slipped the end of the
hose into the flexible spout and wired it tight. Then he cut up an old
wool undershirt and wrapped the pieces around miscellaneous junk--old
nuts and bolts, chunks of leadline, anything to make up half a dozen
packages of good throwing heft. He soaked these in oil and stowed t