"Yep," chuckled Buffalo, "they smells good to me."
"Dodge th' Injuns all right?" asked Brazos, indulging in a time-honored jest.
"Dodged 'em ag'in," gravely nodded the driver. "Here comes th' postmaster. Hello, Jim!"
Jim Hands walked up to the wagon and alongside as it turned the corner and stopped before a frame building bearing in weather-bleached letters across its front: "Wheatley's Express." As it stopped, a tall, lean young man came out and smiled.
"Everythin' all right, Pop?" he asked.
"Right as a dollar. Can't you smell 'em?" chuckled the old man.
"Jerry," said Brazos, "I hears yo're quittin' th' office for a wagon next week?"
"I am; I wanted to swap jobs right along with Pop. Now that we're goin' to run two waggins I'll get a chance to bust out of this jail; an' Pop can still see his friends along th' trail, too. I start in a day or two."
A small group came up and joined them. In it was Rod Wilson, the liveryman; Reb Travers, the railroad freight agent; and Pete Wiggins, the owner of the hotel. They all were cronies of the same vintage as the driver and formed a closed circle into which, however, they had admitted Brazos.
"Bet you didn't git a load," said Rod.