of them danged contraptions, now!" exclaimed Birdsall,
pointing to the holster swinging from Tom's broad belt. "I don't think
much o' these hyar newfangled weapons we're seein' more an' more every
year. An' cussed if he ain't got a double-bar'l rifle, too! Dang it,
Tom, don't put all yer aigs in one basket; ain't ye keepin' no weapons
ye kin be shore on?"

"Thar both good, Enoch," replied Tom, smiling broadly.

"Shore they air," grunted Birdsall's partner. "Enoch don't reckon
nothin's no good less'n it war foaled in th' Revolutionary War, an' has
got whiskers like a Mormon bishop. Fust he war dead sot ag'in
steamboats; said they war flyin' in th' face o' Providence an' wouldn't
work, nohow. Then he said it war plumb foolish ter try ter take waggins
inter Santer Fe. Next he war dead sot ag'in mules fer anythin' but
packin'. Now he's cold ter caps an' says flints war made 'special by th'
Lord fer ter strike fire with--_but_, he rides on th' steamboats when he
gits th' chanct; he's taken waggins clean ter Chihuahua, drivin' mules
ter 'em; an' he's sorter hankerin' fer ter use caps, though he won't
admit it open. Let him alone an' watch him try ter borrer yer new
pistol when th' Injuns try ter stampede th' animals. He's a danged old
fool in his talk, but you jest keep an eye on him. Thar, I've said my
say."

"An' a danged long say it war!" snorted Enoch, belligerently. "It stands
ter reason that thar pistol can't shoot 'em out o' one bar'l plumb down
the dead center of another _every_ time! An' suppose ye want ter use a
double charge o' powder, whar ye goin' ter put it in them danged little
holes? Suppose yer caps hang fire--what then, I want ter know?"

"S'posin' th' wind blows th' primin' out o' yer pan?" queried Zeb.
"S'posin' ye lose your flint? S'posin' yer powder ain't no good?
S'posin' ye ram down th' ball fust, like ye did that time them Crows
tried ter lift our cache. Fine mess ye nigh made o' that! Onct ye start
thar ain't no end o' s'posin', nohow. Caps is all right, _I_ use 'em!"

"_He_ uses 'em!" chuckled Enoch. "Ain't that a sensible answer? Caps is
all right, if _he_ uses 'em! Danged if he don't make me laugh: but he's
a good ol' beaver, at that, Zeb is. As fur rammin' down th' ball fust,
that time; he never told ye about how he swallered a hull mouthful o'
balls when Singin' Fox sent a arrer through his cap, did he?"

Zeb looked a little self-conscious. "Beaver's shore gittin' scarce," he
said.

"Tha