sidekick Doble--say, he's the kind of bird that shoots you in the stomach
while he's shakin' hands with you. They're about as warm-hearted as a
loan shark when he's turnin' on the screws--and about as impulsive. Me,
I aim to button up my pocket when them guys are around."

Dave returned to the fire. The two visitors were sitting side by side,
and the leaping flames set fantastic shadows of them moving. One of
these, rooted where Miller sat, was like a bloated spider watching its
victim. The other, dwarfed and prehensile, might in its uncanny
silhouette have been an imp of darkness from the nether regions.

Most of the riders had already rolled up in their blankets and fallen
asleep. To a reduced circle Miller was telling the story of how his
pack-horse won its name.

"... so I noticed he was actin' kinda funny and I seen four pin-pricks in
his nose. O' course I hunted for Mr. Rattler and killed him, then give
Bill a pint of whiskey. It ce'tainly paralyzed him proper. He got
salivated as a mule whacker on a spree. His nose swelled up till it was
big as a barrel--never did get down to normal again. Since which the ol'
plug has been Whiskey Bill."

This reminiscence did not greatly entertain Dave. He found his blankets,
rolled up in them, and promptly fell asleep. For once he dreamed, and his
dreams were not pleasant. He thought that he was caught in a net woven by
a horribly fat spider which watched him try in vain to break the web that
tightened on his arms and legs. Desperately he struggled to escape while
the monster grinned at him maliciously, and the harder he fought the more
securely was he enmeshed.