Say, you're a chancey bird, Swan, yelling from the brush, like that.

Some folks woulda taken a shot at you." "Then they'd hit me, sure," Swan observed, letting himself down into the trail.

He, too, was wet from his hat crown to his shoes, that squelched when he landed lightly on his toes.

"Anybody would be ashamed to shoot at a mark so large as I am.

I'd say they're poor shooters." And he added irrelevantly, as he held up a grayish pelt, "I got that coyote I been chasing for two weeks.