“Yes, Uncle Hank,” Hilda whispered vehemently, laying hold of his arm. “It’s father’s. Sunday’s come back. He’s in with the other ponies.”
“Oh, is he—is he, so?” echoed Hank, feebly.
“What’s the matter, Pearsall?” Buster called. “Can’t you find that salve?”
“Sure—it’s right here. I’ll fetch it in a minute,” and Hank turned hurriedly back to the wagon.
But before he succeeded in finding the box of salve there was an outcry from one of the new hands.
“Say, Shorty—look here, will you—there’s a strange cayuse in the remuda. We seem to have drawed another card to our hand of ponies.”
Then came Shorty’s voice:
“Well, I’ll be jiggered! Come and see, Pearsall. Here’s that Sunday horse of Hilda’s that’s been gone a year; done flew through the air and lit in our corral. If that don’t beat the dickens!”
“That’s all right, boys,” Uncle Hank said. “It’s all right, Shorty. A—er—friend borrowed the pony off of Pettie, and—”
“Why, yes—I allowed so,” said O’Meara. “But, how in thunder, did Sunday get here now?”