"Ol' Buffaler Wheatley from Highbank. He's goin' up to Juniper an' Sherman."
"He come from Highbank today?" demanded Johnny, surprised.
"Shore—an' he must 'a' come slow."
"Slow? Forty miles with that in a day, an' he come slow?" retorted Johnny. "He was lucky to get here before midnight. If you'd 'a' done what that old feller has today, you'd not think much of anybody as wanted you on hand at supper time."
"Mebby yo're right," conceded George, dubiously, as he went into the kitchen.
Johnny arose and went out to the shed where the driver was flexing his muscles. "Howd'y," he said. "Got th' waggin where you want it?"
"Howd'y, friend," replied Buffalo, looking out from under bushy brows. "I reckon so. 'Most any place'll do. Ain't nothin' 'round'll scratch th' polish off it," he grinned.
Johnny laughed and began unhitching the tired, patient horses, and his deft fingers had it done before Buffalo had any more than started. "Fine hosses," he complimented, slapping the big gray at his side. "You must treat 'em well."
"I do," said Buffalo. "I may abuse myself, sometimes, but not these here fellers. They'll pull all day, an' are as gentle as kittens."
"How do you find freightin'?" asked Johnny, leading his pair into the shed.