Several weeks later Buck Peters drew rein and waited for a stranger to join him.
“Howdy. Is yore name Peters?” asked the newcomer, sizing him up in one trained glance.
“Well, who are you, an' what do you want?”
“I want to see Peters, Buck Peters. That yore name?”
“Yes; what of it?”
“My name's Fox. Old Jim Lane gave me a message for you,” and the stranger spoke earnestly to some length. “There; that's the situation. We've got to have shrewd men that they don't know an' won't suspect. Lane wants to pay a couple of yore men their wages for a month or two. He said he was shore he could count on you to help him out.”
“He's right; he can. I don't forget favors. I've got a couple of men that—there's one of 'em now. Hey, Hoppy! Whoop-e, Hoppy!”
Mr. Cassidy arrived quickly, listened eagerly, named Red and Johnny to accompany him, overruled his companions by insisting that if Johnny didn't go the whole thing was off, carried his point, and galloped off to find the lucky two, his eyes gleaming with anticipation and joy. Fox laughed, thanked the foreman, and rode on his way north; and that night three cow-punchers rode south, all strangely elated. And the friends who watched them go heaved signs of relief, for the reprisals evidently were to be postponed for a while.