“I don’t know,” replied Adrian, “but I can’t remember of ever meeting you, up to now.”
“Might your name be Sherwood?” the other insisted; “and hain’t ye the kid that years ago used ter ride ’round hyah on a calico pony, when the ole man was alive, an’ ran Bar-S Ranch? I heard ’em call yuh Adreen a while ago, an’ ’pears tuh me as how thet same war the name o’ thet lively boy. Air you him?”
Adrian did not see fit to answer. He could not deny the accusation, and there would be no good end served in acknowledging it; though of course the man would construe his silence to mean assent, and understand things accordingly. But perhaps it might be as well that the Walkers knew the true
owner of Bar-S Ranch had come to town to take possession of his own, and clear up this strange tangle that seemed to have possession of his property, under Uncle Fred Comstock, who had taken to himself a wife, and she connected with the Walker tribe.
The boys went back to the dwindling fire, to sit the night out. They did not try to keep up much of a blaze, lest it serve to draw enemies to the spot; but sitting in the shadows, they held their rifles in readiness, and occasionally exchanged a few words as the minutes dragged slowly by.
Finally in the far east appeared the first faint streaks that told of coming day and the pair of weary watchers welcomed their arrival with positive relief, for it would mean a change, and action.
[CHAPTER XII.—DRIVING THE STAMPEDED STOCK HOME.]
“Wake up, Billie; it’s breakfast time!”
Probably no other summons could have such an immediate effect upon the stout chum as this call. He instantly raised his head, and commenced to sniff the air.
“Coffee, and bacon frying in the bargain! Oh! I hope now I ain’t too late; and also that you’ve