“Then you think he expected your father to hurry over here with a dozen or twenty cowboys, to help put down the rebellion?” Bob demanded.
“It strikes me that’s about the size of it,” Frank assented. “But we’re nearly up to him now, and must soon know the facts.”
Bob was looking at the man who waited for them, and trying to read something of his character from his countenance. It was a typical Scotch face, with high cheekbones, freckles, a red mustache and beard, and blue eyes. Bob told himself that Sandy McCoy was an absolutely fearless kind of man, just the sort to knock around the world, and fill many positions that required courage and honesty, with credit.
“Hello! Sandy! how are you?” called Frank, as he and Bob drew close to the spot where the other stood.
Although McCoy had a decided “burr” to his voice, he seemed to speak decent English; and the first thing he said was:
“Where’s your father, Frank?”
“Back home on the ranch, nursing a broken leg,” replied the boy.
The man frowned, and seemed to gnaw at his stubby red mustache.
“I’m sorry for that,” he remarked. “But I suppose he sent some of the men along with ye, Frank?”
Frank made a motion with his hand that included his companion.