He reflected bitterly that the cook was away most of the time, and that a man fared considerably better with the outfit than he did by staying at the home ranch. For one thing, when a man was with the outfit he got “grub,” without having to rustle it himself—that was why it was better to be with the outfit.
“A man don’t git nothin’ to eat at all, scarcely—when he’s got to rustle his own grub,” mourned Bud. “He’s got the appetite, all right, but he don’t know how to rassle the ingredients which goes into good grub. Take them flapjacks, now.” (He licked his lips again.) “They’re scrumptuous. But that damned hyena which slings grub for the outfit won’t tell a man how he makes ’em, which greediness is goin’ to git him into a heap of trouble some day—when I git so hungry that I feel a heap reckless!”
Bud watched the dawn broaden. He knew he ought to get up, for this was the day on which Marion Harlan was to visit the Arrow—and Taylor had warned him to be on hand early to bandage the ankle again—Taylor having decided that not enough time had elapsed to effect a cure.
But Bud did not get up until a glowing shaft entering the window warned him that the sun was soon to appear above the horizon. Then he bounded out of the bunk and lurched heavily to an east window.
What he saw when he looked out made him gasp for breath and hang hard to the window-sill, while his eyes bulged and widened with astonishment. For upon the porch of the ranchhouse—seated in the identical chairs in which they had sat during their previous visit, were Marion Harlan and the negro woman!
Bud stepped back from the window and rubbed his eyes. Then he went to the window again and looked with all his vision. And then a grin covered his face.
For the two women seemed to be asleep. Bud would have sworn they were asleep! For the negress was hunched up in her chair—a big, almost shapeless black mass—with her chin hidden in the swell of her ample bosom; while the girl was leaning back, her figure slack with the utter relaxation that accompanies deep sleep, her eyes closed and her hat a little awry. Bud was certain she was asleep, for no girl in her waking moments would permit her hat to rest upon her head in that negligent manner.
Bad scratched his head many times while hurriedly getting into his clothing.
“I’m bettin’ they didn’t wait for flapjacks this morning!” he confided to himself, mentally. “Must like it here a heap,” he reflected. “Well, there’s nothin’ like gittin’ an early start when you’re goin’ anywhere!” he grinned.
Stealthily he opened the door of the bunkhouse, watching furtively as he stepped out, lest he be seen; and then when he noted that the women did not move, he darted across the yard, vaulted the corral fence, ran around the corner of the ranchhouse, carefully opened a rear door, and presently stood beside a bed gently shaking its tousled-haired occupant.