"Why do you call him that?"
"Because of two things," answered Bud. "First place, he's white. That's the color angels is supposed to be, most of 'em says. Then, if you'll look at his hoof-mark, you'll see the frog is shaped like a heart. More angel. Then again—that's three times, ain't it?—he's got a temper like angels ain't supposed to have."
"So I have observed," agreed Tad, with a laugh.
"And that's why we call him the Angel. We'll get the old gentleman this time or break every cinch strap in the outfit."
There was rejoicing among the horse-hunters when they heard that it was indeed the Angel himself whose trail they had come upon.
"He's got the finest bunch of horse flesh with him that you'll find anywhere on the desert," averred another. "Old Angel won't travel with any scarecrows in his band. He's proud as a peacock with a new spread of tail feathers."
"S'pose you don't know how many there are in the band, eh, kiddie?" questioned Bud.
"Twenty-one and a colt," answered Tad promptly.
"Oho! So—but Tom Parry told you, of course."
"Tom Parry didn't," objected the guide. "Master Tad read the trail himself."