Ted cheerfully acquiesced, and old Bohm loaded his wagon alone and drove toward his claim in peace.
The next morning very early, I heard Bill calling Ted. No Ted appeared, and I went out to see where he was.
“Where do you reckon that crazy kid’s went now?” demanded Bill, impatient to start.
“I’m sure I don’t know, Bill, hunting prairie-dogs, probably. Don’t wait for him, if you’re ready to go.”
“Huntin’ prairie-dogs,” echoed Bill. “I’ll bet a hat he’s huntin’ old Bohm somewheres.” He frowned as he cinched up his saddle. “I reckon I’d better ride over that way and see what he’s up to.”
“I wish you would,” I said, vaguely uneasy. “I don’t want him to bother Bohm too much.”
“Me neither,” said Bill, getting on his horse, “there’s his pony’s tracks now,” he looked at the ground. “I’ll find him and take him along with me. Don’t you worry, he’s all right, but he sure is a corker—that kid,” and Bill galloped off.
I felt confident that he would overtake the lad, so I dismissed them all from my mind and settled down to an uninterrupted morning, and a delayed postal report.
I was busy all day and was just starting out for a little walk before supper when Bill and Ted rode up.
Bill and Ted, hatless, clothes torn and covered with dirt and blood, their faces scratched and bruised, and Ted regarding me triumphantly from one half-closed eye, the other being swollen shut.