“Well,” says Magpie Simpkins, sliding off the rock, and hitching up his belt. “Now that there seems to be uh lull in the firing we might as well pilgrim down and see if we can patch up the injured.” Nobody knows where we’re going--me and Magpie. Sometimes we just follers other men’s trails and then again we follers our yaller burro. We calls that burro, Lodestone. We always let him pilgrim on ahead, and when he opines to leave the beaten trail and wander afield, we agrees that he’s just as apt to stumble on uh good prospect as we are, so we follers his hunch.…
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