“Remember the time you licked Bully Dormer?” asked Somers, with a musing smile. “Ah, but that was a fight—and a licking.”
“The licking he got wasn’t in it with the one old MacStinger gave me that evening,” remarked Haines, grinning. “Gee, Scrappy! I can feel that birch yet. I reckon old Mac’s dead now.”
“Died in the harness. His last words were ‘Omnia Gallia.’ Remember how Anne used to cry whenever he’d wallop you? I often joke her about it yet.”
A wistful look sprang to the lean man’s eyes; he shot a quick glance at Somers, then gazed dreamily up the pass.
“Is she at Fielding’s, too, Bob?” he asked softly.
“No. I wanted her to come, but she feared the little fellows couldn’t stand the long trip.”
The crippled mustang below them whinnied expectantly. Haines turned his face eastward. Among the foothills rose a cloud of dust that lengthened westward despite the eastward breeze. Haines rose to his feet and took Somers’ hand.
“Good-by, Bob,” he said.
“You’re not going!” exclaimed Somers. “Why, we’ve only just begun to talk; and I want you to come⸺”
“I’m not going,” Haines interrupted, with an odd smile. “Not for an hour or so yet. But you are—unless you want to reverse the old order of things and fight my battle.”