In fact the result was so pleasing that after enjoying it to the full, the ranchmen decided to carry the hazing no further, and only requesting of Wilson that he wave his hat and give “three cheers for the citizens of Bonepile,” they mounted their ponies, and scampered away.
Hastening in to the telegraph instruments, Wilson began frantically calling Exeter. Before X had responded, however, the boy paused, and sat back in his chair, a new light coming into his eyes.
“Yes, sir; I’ll wager they sent them down here to do this,” he said aloud.
Suddenly he arose, and began removing the turned coat. “I’ll stick it out here for two weeks—if they lynch me!” declared the “dude” grimly.
It was early Wednesday evening of a week later that the monthly gold shipment came down from the Red Valley mines. The consignment was an unusually large one, and in view of the youth of the new operator the superintendent wired a request that Big Bill Smith, the driver of the mines express, remain at the station until the treasure was safely aboard train.
On reading the message, however, Big Bill flatly refused. “Why, it’s the night of Dan Haggerty’s dance,” he pointed out indignantly. “Doesn’t the superintendent know that?”
“The superintendent didn’t—and didn’t care,” was the response to the wired protest. “The driver was supposed to remain at all times. It was an old understanding.”
Understanding or not, Big Bill declined to remain, and stormed out the door, announcing that he would get someone down from the Bar-O ranch. Half an hour later Muskoka Jones appeared.
“Good evening. I’m sorry it was necessary to trouble you, sir,” apologized Wilson.
“Good evening, Willie. Don’t mention it,” was the big cowman’s scornful response. Then, having momentarily paused to cast a contemptuous eye over the lad’s neat attire, he threw himself on the floor in the farthermost corner of the room, and promptly fell fast asleep.