A rattle of clods and small rocks fell from their high flight into the sweet air of a mountain sunset.
"Good execution, that was," Cash remarked, craning his neck toward the hole.

"If you're a mind to go on ahead and cook supper, I'll stay and see if we opened up anything.

Or you can stay, just as you please." Dynamite smoke invariably made Bud's head ache splittingly.

Cash was not so susceptible.

Bud chose the cooking, and went away down the flat, the bluejay screaming insults after him.