“Morning Charlie,” said the rancher. “Glad to see you on hand so early. Are the boys from the Lone Star comin’ up?”
“The whole of Concho Valley will be here to-day,” returned the man at the window. “It is bound to be a big time, Rodney.”
“That’s whatever. Bill Rodney don’t do anything by halves. When did ye start?”
“Midnight.”
“Wal, it’s a right smart ride. Give yer horse to Kemble and come in to breakfast. You can have my chance here.”
“Thank you; but I’ll wait till you are through.”
Then he strolled away, his handsome horse following him like a well-trained dog.
“Who is he?” asked Frank.
“That’s Indian Charlie, foreman of the Lone Star Ranch,” answered Rodney. “He’s the best shot and roper in Texas, and the most reckless rider I ever saw. He was born in the East, and went to college, but skipped after shootin’ another chap in a duel over a girl. Lucky for Charlie, t’other chap didn’t die; but Charlie never went back, and now he has the most remarkable aversion for all tenderfeet of any man I ever saw. You all want to be right careful not to git him r’iled, for he is worse than a wild steer on the rampage when he’s mad. He has a way of shootin’ first and talkin’ it over afterward.”
“Such a fellow as that needs to be taught a lesson,” said Frank. “Some one should take the trouble to teach him, too.”