Bailey used to call the men to breakfast. The chill
gray half-light of early morning discovered him with one cautious eye,
gazing across at Haskins, who still snored, despite the bell. "Oh,
Bill!" called Pete. Haskins's snore broke in two as he swallowed the
unlaunched half and sat up rubbing his eyes. He swung his feet down
and yawned prodigiously. "Heh--hell!" he exclaimed as his bare feet
touched the furry back of the lion. Bill glanced down into those
half-closed eyes. His jaw sagged. Then he bounded to the middle of
the room. With a whoop he dashed through the doorway, rounded into the
open, and sprinted for the corral fence, his bare legs twinkling like
the side-rods of a speeding locomotive and his shirt-tail fluttering in
the morning breeze. Andy White leaped from his bunk, saw the dead
lion, and started to follow Haskins. Another cowboy, Avery, was
dancing on one foot endeavoring to don his overalls.
Hank Barley, an old-timer, jumped up with his gun poised, ready for
business. "Why, he's daid!" he exclaimed, poking the lion with the
muzzle of his gun.
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