"No, I'll feel easier if I know they ain't tangled. Keep stirrin' the gravy so it won't burn on you," he called back. "And set the coffee off in a couple of minutes."
Wallie was on his knees absorbed in his task of keeping the gravy from scorching when a sound made him turn quickly and look behind him.
A large man on a small white pony was riding toward him. He looked unprepossessing even at a distance and he did not improve, as he came closer. His nose was long, his jaw was long, his hair needed cutting and was greasy, while his close-set blue eyes had a decidedly mean expression. There was a rifle slung under his stirrup-leather, and a six-shooter in its holster on his hip was a conspicuous feature of his costume.
He sat for a moment, looking, then dropped the bridle reins as he dismounted and sauntered up to the camp-fire.
Wallie was sure that it was "Boise Bill," from a description Pinkey had given him, and his voice was slightly tremulous as he said:
"Good evening."
The stranger paid no attention to his greeting. He was surveying Wallie in his riding breeches and puttees with an expression that was at once amused and insolent.
"Looks like you aimed to camp a spell, from your lay-out," he observed, finally.
"Yes, I am here permanently." Wallie wondered if the stranger could see that his hand was trembling as he stirred the gravy.
"Indeed! How you got that figgered?" asked the man, mockingly.