Jimmy nodded. "I reckon so. An' they 're usually where nobody wants 'em, anyhow. Would n't Sharpsville be disgusted if they went north? But let's get out of here, 'less you got some plan to bag a couple."
"I like you more all th' time," Bill smiled. "But I ain't got no plan, except to move."
"Now, if they ain't funny," muttered Jimmy. "If they only knowed what they was runnin' into!"
Bill turned in surprise. "I reckon I 'm easy, but I 'll bite: what are they runnin' into?"
"I don't mean th' Injuns; I mean that wagon," replied Jimmy, nodding to a canvas-covered "schooner" on the opposite hill. "Come here, 'Sylum!" he thundered. Bill wheeled, and smothered a curse when he saw the woman. "Fools!" he snarled. "Don't let her know," and he was galloping toward the newcomers.
"They shore is innercent," soliloquized Jimmy, following. "Just like a baby chasin' a rattler for to play with it."
Bill drew rein at the wagon and removed his sombrero. "Howd'y," he said. "Where you headin' for?" he asked pleasantly.
Tom French shifted the reins. "Sharpsville. And where in—thunder—is it?"
His brother stuck his head out through the opening in the canvas. "Yes; where?"
"You see, we are lost," explained the woman, glancing from Bill to Jimmy, whose spectacular sliding stop was purely for her benefit, though she knew it not. "We left Logan four days ago and have been wandering about ever since."