“You made good, anyhow,” chuckled Merry. “That’s the principal thing, fellows. Whether you’re chasing a pig, or running a race of any other sort, you ought to feel like shaking hands with yourselves when you win.”
“It’s no joke,” snorted Ballard, “and I want you to stop that fool grinning.”
“The joke was on the pig,” said Clancy. “And I think it’s a pretty how de do when three husky fellows like you will make such a rumpus over one small porker.”
“That’ll do,” cried the cowboy. “A while ago I felt like massacring the pig, but now I’m beginning to feel as though I’d like to massacre you. What about it, Pink?”
“Count me in,” answered Ballard. “Only make a complete job of it, that’s all, Barzy.”
“By the way,” said Blunt, having a sudden thought that sent his attention galloping on another course, “what’s Jode Lenning doing out this way?”
“Lenning!” exclaimed Merriwell. “You don’t mean to say you saw him?”
“Looked like him, although he and the other fellow were a good way off. They were pelting along on horseback, as tight as they could go—came out of a gulch and rushed along the trail to beat the band. Each of ’em had something over the saddle in front of him that looked like a bag. They didn’t come very near where we were, so we didn’t have a chance to give ’em a close sizing; but the fellow was Lenning—I’d almost stake my head on it.”
A queer feeling raced through Merriwell’s nerves. He was wondering if, after all, Lenning had left the mine for some such work as had taken place in the cañon that morning? Another moment and he had fought down the rising suspicion.
“What sort of a horse was the fellow riding?” asked Burke; “I mean,” he added, “the one you thought was Lenning?”