Then, as a morning or two passed and Bowles was still in his place, they began to lapse into jest.
"Old Henry will shore be s'prised when he comes back from town," observed blithesome Happy Jack. "He'll find Bowles ridin' Dunbar with a hackamore and feedin' him sugar from his hand. Big doin's soon to come, boys—boss and family goin' down to Chula Vista to-morrer."
"Well, we better hog-tie Hinglish, then," grumbled Buck Buchanan; "he'll never last till mornin'. Gittin' right close on to that time!"
"Never you mind about Hinglish," retorted Brigham Clark, whose loyalty had been fanned to a flame. "If it was you, Buck Buchanan, we couldn't see you fer dust right now. They ain't a man of ye dares to say he'd ride Dunbar, let alone the doin' of it. Will you ride him second if he throws Bowles off? Well, keep yore face shut, then! The whole bunch of ye ought to be canned fer tryin' to git 'im killed!"
"Well, let 'im go on away, then!" burst out Hardy Atkins. "We never told 'im to ride Dunbar—we told 'im to quit his four-flushin' and either make good or git. There's the road down there—let 'im take to it!"
He jerked an imperious hand at Bowles, who answered him with a scowl.
"If you will kindly mind your own business, Mr. Atkins," he purled, "I shall certainly be greatly obliged."
He gave each word the Harvard accent and tipped it off with venom, for Bowles was losing his repose. In fact, he was mad, mad all over, and at every remark he bristled like a dog. A concatenation of circumstances had thrown him into the company of these Texas brawlers, but he aimed to show by every means in his power his absolute contempt for their trickery and his determination to stand on his rights. He had said he would ride Dunbar, and that was enough—he had given his word as a gentleman. Therefore, he resented their insinuations and desired only to be left alone. Certainly he had enough on his mind to keep him occupied without responding to ill-natured remarks.
Fate was piling things up on poor Bowles, and he earnestly longed for the end. There is a cynic's saying that every time a man gets into trouble his girl goes back on him, just to carry out the run of luck; and while of course it isn't true, it seemed that way to Bowles. Perhaps his own manner had had something to do with it, but, the morning after his rebuff, Dixie greeted him almost as a stranger, and, falling back shortly afterward into her old carefree way of talking, she began to josh with the boys. Then she took a long ride with Brigham, a ride that left him all lit up with enthusiasm and made him want to talk about love. As a matter of fact, Dixie had sensed something big in the air and was anxiously ferreting it out, but Bowles did not know about that. All he knew was that he disapproved of her conduct, and wondered vaguely what her mother would say. Not that it was any of his business, but he wondered all the same; and, wondering, shook his head and sighed.
But three days of flirting and sleuthing brought nothing to Dixie's net. From the cook down, the outfit was a solid phalanx against her—they would talk and smile but they never showed their hand. One clue and only one she had—there seemed to be an unusual interest in when she was going to town. First on one pretext and then on another they inquired casually about the date, and if her folks were going along too. So, whatever the deviltry was, it was something that called for secrecy—and it was due on the day they left home. She looked them over as they gathered about the evening fire, and smoothed her hair down thoughtfully—and the next morning she started for town.