“How is it that you’ve got a Cross Bar-8 cayuse?” Bill asked at length, too idiotically happy to realize the significance of his question.
The Orphan’s hand leaped suddenly and then stopped and dropped to the pommel, and he looked up at the driver.
“Oh, one of their punchers and I sort of swapped,” he laughingly replied, thinking of the man under the débris. “Say, if I don’t get as far as the cañon with you, just climb up above on the left hand side near the entrance and release a fool puncher that is covered up under a pile of rubbish, will you? I came near forgetting him, and I don’t want him to die in that way.”
As he spoke he saw a group of horsemen swing over a rise and he knew them instinctively.
“There’s the gang now–tell them, I’m off for a ride,” he said, dropping back to the coach door, where he raised his hand to his head and bowed.
CHAPTER VII
THE OUTFIT HUNTS FOR STRAYS
AS the group of punchers and the stage neared each other Bill saw two horsemen ride out into view beside a chaparral half a mile to the northwest, and he recognized Shields and Charley, who were loping forward as if to overtake the cowboys, their approach noiseless because of the deep sand. As the cowboys came nearer Bill recognized them as being the five worst men of the Cross Bar-8 outfit, and his loyalty to his new friend was no stronger than his dislike for the newcomers. They swept up at a canter and stopped abruptly near the front wheel.
“Who was that?” asked Larry Thompson impatiently, with his gloved hand indicating the direction taken by The Orphan.
“Friend of mine,” replied Bill, who was diplomatically pleasant. “Say,” he began, enthusing for effect, “you should have turned up sooner–you missed a regular circus! We was chased by five Apaches, and my friend cleaned ’em up right, he shore did! You should a seen it. I wouldn’t a missed it for––”