“Howdy, strangers. Yes, ’pears like we’re stuck. We’ve been here since yesterday. Can’t seem to get out.”
“Are you alone?” asked Mr. Baxter.
“No, sir. But my man he’s thar in the wagon, sick. Reckon he’s got the janders, and he isn’t any good.”
But a boy younger than Davy walked forward from the other children. He was a ragged, sharp-faced youngster, and now full of business.
“I’m boss of this outfit,” he asserted. “Say, can’t you hitch on your mules an’ give us a lift. Those oxen of ours can’t pull grass up by the roots, they’re so plumb wore out. It’s a hard trail, strangers.”
“Sure we can,” replied Hi, promptly. “Unhitch, boys. Let’s snake ’em out o’ thar.”
“Want our oxen, too?” keenly queried the boy.
“Nope, sonny. We can haul the wagon, but we can’t haul the bulls at the same time.”
At shout and crack of lash the Hee-Haw mules sturdily put their shoulders to their collars and with heave and groan the wagon rolled out to the firm ground.
“Much obliged,” said the boy. “What do we owe you?”