from that lame pack horse. Reckon we'll have to shoot him if he don't get better in a hurry."
Up to my knees in mud I go
An' water to my middle;
Whenever firewood's to be got
I'm Cookie's sec-ond fid-dle,
chanted Jud, splashing out to where the lame pack horse conducted an experiment in saturation. "Hot, cussed hot," he enlightened the cheerful, but tired group on the bank. "Hot an' oozy. Hello, hoss," he greeted, slapping the shrinking shoulder. "You heard what th' boss said about you? Pick up, Ol' Timer; pick up or you'll get shot. What? Don't blame you a bit, not a cussed bit. I'd ruther be shot, too, than tote wood over this part of h—l. Oh, well; life's plumb funny. You'll fry if you do, an' you'll die if you don't. What's th' difference, anyhow, Ol' Timer?”
"Hey, Jud," called a voice. "Got a new bunkie?"
"I could have worse than a cayuse," replied Jud. "A cussed sight worse."
"There's mocassins, rattlers, copperheads, tarantulas, an' scorpions in that pond! " warned another.
"You done forgot Gila monsters, tigers an'—an'—Injuns," retorted Jud. "Now comes a job. With both arms full of slippin', criss-crossin' firewood, th' rest slidin' from th' pack, I got to hang on to what I got, put th' rest back like it ought to go an' make everythin' tight. Come out here, some d—d fool, an' gimme a hand. Better move lively—only got four arms an' six hands.
