e Jemes
country. I know every foot uh the way, 'n' we kin make it in a coupla
days by pushin' the hosses. 'N' I'll bet every dang hoof I own 't we
round up that bunch over thar som'ers."

"You lead out, then," Luck told him promptly. "I'm willing to admit
you're better qualified to take charge of the outfit than I am. You know
the country--and you've fit Indians."

"We-ell, now, you're dang right I have! 'N' if some them bucks don't go
off 'n' mind their own business, I'll likely fight a few morel You shoo
'em outa camp, Luck, 'n' start 'em about their own dang business. 'N'
we'll eat a bite 'n' git on about our own. If we show up any grub whilst
this bunch is hangin' around we'll have t' feed 'em--'n' you know dang
well we ain't got enough skurcely fer the Jemes trip as it is."

"I've been handing out money as it is till I'm about broke," Luck
confessed, "making presents to those fellows that came in with bullets
in their legs and arms. Funny nobody got hit in the body--except one
poor devil that got shot in the shoulder."

"We-ell, now, you kin blame Lite's dang tender heart fer that there,"
Applehead accused, pulling at his sunbrowned mustache. "We was all
comin' on the jump, 'n' so was the Injuns; 'n' it was purty long range
'n' nobody but lite could hit 'n Injun t' save his soul. 'N' Lite,
he wouldn't shoot t' kill--he jes' kep' on nippin' an' nickin', 'n'
shootin' a boss now an' then. I wisht I was the expert shot Lite is--I'd
shore a got me a few Navvies back there, now I'm tellin' yuh!"

"Bud's got a bullet in his arm," Luck said, "but the bone wasn't hit, so
he'll make out, and one of the pack-horses was shot in the ear. We got
off mighty lucky, and I'm certainly glad Lite didn't get careless. Cost
me about fifty dollars to square us as it is. You stay where you are,
Applehead, till I get rid of the Indians. The old fellow acts like he
feels he ought to stick along till we're outa here. He's kind of taken a
notion to me because I can talk sign, and he seems to want to make sure
we don't mix it again with the tribe. Some of them are kinda peeved,
all right. You've got no quarrel with this old fellow, have you? He's
a big-league medicine man in the tribe, and his Spanish name is Mariano
Pablo Montoya. Know him?"

"No I don't, 'n' I don't keer to neither," Applehead retorted crossly.
"Shoo 'em off, Luck, so's we kin eat. My belly's shore a floppin' agin
m' backbone, 'n' I'm tellin' yuh right!"

CHAPTER