A rustling like dried leaves came from among the rocks and the hair
rose bristling around the neck of the wolflike dog. With outstretched
head he approached the rocks, sniffing, then stopped and turned
shining eyes upon his master, who nodded and swung from the saddle. It
was a little uncanny, this silent interchange of glances between the
beast and the man. The cause of the dog's anxiety was a long rattler
which now slid out from beneath a boulder, and giving its harsh
warning, coiled, ready to strike. The dog backed away, but instead of
growling he looked to the man.
Cowboys frequently practise with their revolvers at snakes, but one of
the peculiarities of this rider was that he carried no gun, neither
six-shooter nor rifle. He drew out a short knife which might be used
to skin a beef or carve meat, though certainly no human being had ever
used such a weapon against a five-foot rattler. He stooped and rested
both hands on his thighs. His feet were not two paces from the poised
head of the snake. As if marvelling at this temerity, the big rattler
tucked back his head and sounded the alarm again. In response the
cowboy flashed his knife in the sun. Instantly the snake struck but
the deadly fangs fell a few inches short of the riding boots.
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