A rattlesnake buzzed its strident warning between two rocks, but
before he turned his attention to the business of killing it, the
snake had crawled leisurely away into a cleft, where he could not
reach it with the stones he threw. His thoughts, however, were
brought back to his surroundings so that he remembered Peppajee.
He stood still, and scanned carefully the jumble of rocks and
bowlders which sloped steeply down to the river, looking for a
betraying bit of color or dirty gray hat-crown.
"But I could look my eyes out and welcome, if he didn't want to
be seen," he concluded, and sat down while he rolled a cigarette.
"And I don't know as I want to see him, anyway." Still, he did
not move immediately. He was in the shade, which was a matter
for congratulation on such a day. He had a cigarette between his
lips, which made for comfort; and he still felt the exhilarating
effects of his unpremeditated boldness, without having come to
the point of sober thinking. He sat there, and blew occasional
mouthfuls of smoke into the quivering heat waves, and stared down
at the river rushing over the impeding rocks as if its very
existence depended upon reaching as soon as possible the broader
sweep of the Snake.
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