Bud suddenly turned in his saddle and pointed to a jackrabbit which bounded away across the plain like an animated shadow.
“Now, if Humble’s bloodhound was only here,” he said, “we would rope that jack and make the cur fight it. It would be a fine fight, all right,” he laughed.
“You go to the devil,” grunted Humble, and he started ahead at full speed. “Come on!” he cried. “Come on, you snails!” and a race was on.
·····
The citizens of Ford’s Station saw a low-hanging cloud of dust which rolled rapidly up from the west and soon a hard-riding crowd of cowboys, in gala attire, galloped down the main street of the town. They slowed to a canter and rode abreast in a single line, the arms of each man over the shoulders of his nearest companions, and all sang at the top of their lungs. On the right end rode Blake, and on the left was The Orphan. Bill Howland ran out into the street and spotted his new friend immediately and swung his hat and cheered for the man who had helped him out of two bad holes. The Orphan broke from the line and shook hands with the driver, his face wreathed by a grin.
“You old son-of-a-gun!” cried Bill, delighted at the familiarity from so noted a person as the former outlaw. “How are you, hey?”
The line cried warm greeting as it swung around to shake his hand, and the driver’s chest took on several inches of girth.
“Hullo, Bill!” cried Bud with a laugh. “Seen your old friend Tex lately?”
“Yes, I did,” replied Bill. “I saw him out on Thirty-Mile Stretch, but he didn’t do nothing but swear. He didn’t want no more run-ins with me, all right, and, besides, my rifle was across my knees. He said as how he was going to come back some day and start things moving about this old town, and I told him to begin with the Star C when he did.”
He looked across the street and waved his hand at a group of his friends who were looking on. “Come on over, fellows,” he cried, and when they had done so he turned and introduced The Orphan to them.