"Who's Archie?" asked Frank.
"One of Uncle Richfield's men. He's an old cattleman, a fine shot, and what he doesn't know about horses isn't worth losing any sleep over. His real name is Archibald Lynch, but we all call him Archie."
"Sort of girlish name for a man; isn't it?" inquired Andy.
"That's what Archie is always complaining about," said Billy. "He says he wonders why his folks ever saddled him with a name like that, but he can't get rid of it. Once he thought of adopting a new one, and he picked out 'Hank' as having the proper tone, but the boys only laughed at him, and kept right on calling him Archie. I guess he's used to it by this time."
The Racer boys looked to see a tall, bronzed man, with a weather-beaten face, shoulders that slightly stooped, and legs that were bowed from much riding of horses. He was a typical Westerner, with clear eyes that seemed to look right through you, and plenty of reserve strength.
He sat on the seat of a buckboard wagon, drawn by a team of small, wiry horses, and scanned the train narrowly.
"He's looking for us," said Billy.
"Is it far from here to the ranch?" asked Frank.
"Oh, about ten miles. But we make it in good time. Those horses can travel, though they don't look very stylish. Oh, there's Uncle Richfield!" and Billy waved to a tall, well-built man who was walking down the depot platform. "I didn't think he'd come to meet us—he's so busy," he added. "Hi, Uncle Richfield!" he called, and the man, looking up suddenly, waved his hand to his nephew.
"Hello, Billy!" he answered in a pleasant voice. "So you got here all right, did you? Boys with you?"