"I mean that we fellows put up a job on the kids. The fat baby turned
the joke on us, and right smart at that. We're It. We're full of
bugs---the worst biters anywhere between the Rio Grande and the
northern border. Are we going to squeal? I reckon we aren't. We're
going to stand here and let the biters do their worst. I'm mighty
near eaten alive, but I'm taking my medicine and I reckon I'll be
taking a lot more of the same dose before morning."
"Wal," drawled Polly, "I reckon you're right at that, Cad. But I'd
like to wring that little cayuse's neck just for luck."
The "little cayuse" referred to was sleeping sweetly in his tent,
untroubled by the distress of the Rangers.
All that night the Rangers walked up and down, slapping their thighs,
scratching their legs, for the older the night grew the harder did
those fleas seem to take hold.
"I reckon their bills will be so dull by morning, after drilling our
tough hides all night, that we won't feel them at all," observed Polly.
A low growl from Dippy Orell was the only reply to the remark. Now and
then a man would throw himself down hoping to get a brief nap, but a few
moments later he would be up stamping and scratching and growling deeply,
threatening vengeance on the boy who had played the trick on them.
Next morning, Stacy Brown, for reasons best known to himself, got up
ahead of the others of his party.
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