him to yank them in again, and turning his head quickly he had the pleasure of lopping off the head of a rattlesnake with his Colt's.
"Glad yu wasn't a copperhead," he exclaimed. "Somebody had ought 'a' shot that fool Noah. D—n the ants!" He drowned with a jet of tobacco juice a Gila monster that was staring at him and took a savage delight in its frantic efforts to bury itself.
Soon he heard Skinny swear and he sung out: "What's the matter, Skinny? Git plugged again?"
"Naw, bugs—ain't they h—l?" plaintively asked his friend.
"They ain't none over here. What kind of bugs?"
"Sufferin' Moses, I ain't no bugologist! All kinds!"
But Hopalong got it at last. He had found tobacco and rolled a cigarette, and in reaching for a match exposed his shoulder to a shot that broke his collar bone. Skinny's rifle cracked in reply and the offending brave rolled out from behind a rock. From the fuss emanating from Hopalong's direction Skinny knew that his neighbor had been hit.
"Don't yu care, Hoppy. I got th' cuss," he said consolingly. "Where'd he git yu?" he asked.
"In th' heart, yu pie-faced nuisance. Come over here an' corral this cussed bandage an' gimme some water," snapped the injured man.
Skinny wormed his way through the thorny chaparral and bound up the shoulder. "Anything else?" he asked.
"Yes. Shoot that bunch of warts an' blow that tobacco-eyed Gila to Cheyenne. This here's worse than the time we cleaned out th' C 80 outfit!" Then he kicked the dead toad and swore at the sun.
"Close yore yap; yore worse than a kid! Anybody'd think yu never got plugged afore," said Skinny indignantly.
"I can cuss all I wants," replied Hopalong, proving his asser-
