days off," declared the foreman. "What I meant was that
some tenderfeet individuals are headin'--"

Slim did not finish the sentence for he was nearly thrown from his
saddle (something most unusual with him) as his pony gave a sudden leap
to one side, following a peculiar noise in a bunch of grass on which
the animal almost stepped.

The noise was not unlike that made by a locust in a tree on a hot day,
but there was in the vibrations a more sinister sound. And well did
Slim's horse know what it indicated.

"A rattler!" yelled Bud, and close on the heels of his words followed
action.

He whipped out his .45, there was a sliver of flame, a sharp crack at
which the three steeds of the trio of youthful cowboys jumped slightly,
and there writhed on the trail a venomous rattle-snake, its head now a
shapeless mass where the bullet from Bud's gun had almost obliterated
it.

"Whew! A big one!" exclaimed Slim, who had quickly gotten his pony
under control again, and turned it back toward the scene of action. It
spoke well for his ability that he had not lost his cigarette, and was
puffing on it, though the sudden leap of his steed, to avoid a bite
that probably would have meant death, had jarred the words from his
mouth.

"First of the season," added Bud, slipping his gun back into the
holster.

"Are they more poisonous then than at other times?" asked Nort.

"Guess there isn't much difference, son," affirmed Slim. "I don't want
to be nipped by one at any time. Much obliged, Bud," he said, easily
enough, though there was a world of meaning in his voice. "I shore
plum would hate to have to shoot Pinto, and that's what I'd a done if
that serpent had set its fangs in his leg."

"Why'd he shoot him?" asked Dick, for he and his brother, though far
removed from the tenderfoot class, were not wise to all western ways
yet.

"There isn't much chance for a horse after it's been bit deep by a
rattler," Bud explained. "Of course I don't say every horse that's
bitten will die, but it's harder to doctor them than it is a man. And
Slim meant he wouldn't want to see Pinto suffer."

"You're right there, Bud!" drawled Slim Degnan. "They do say this
new-fangled treatment is better'n whisky for snake bites, but I don't
reckon I want to chance it."

"The permanganate of potash is almost a sure cure for the ordinary
snake bite, if you use it in time," declared Bud. "But I don't know
that it would work after a _fer de lanc