"You'll get yours, Higgins, when Hal gets back," asserted the man who protested against Bob's being sent to Ford's.
"And you didn't even warn him about the dog," chided another.
At this reminder of the savage wolfhound that John Ford kept to guard his cabin, the idlers grew serious and exchanged uneasy glances.
"Oh, well! Ford'll probably see the boy so long as he comes from the direction of the railroad. Yellow Tom told me he sits by the hour looking toward the track—and he'll call off the brute."
"Providing the beast don't chew the boy up before John sees him," interposed another.
"Now, Tracy, don't always be looking for trouble," growled Higgins. "Life out West ain't no kindergarten. We had to take our knocks. Let the kid get his. Just because his father is rich ain't no reason why we should carry pillows around for him to fall on."
This crude viewpoint, if not satisfying to the consciences of Higgins' companions at least afforded relief, and they fell to wondering what Bob would say to them on his return—for return they expected he would.
In the meantime, the object of their thoughts was hurrying as rapidly as he could over the rough roadbed.
The crisp, bracing air seemed a stimulant to his lungs which had never breathed any but the contaminated air of New York, and he gloried in the fact that he was at last in a land where success did not depend on influence and riches, but where a man "made good" or failed, according to whether he was made of the right stuff or not.
For a time, his mind dwelt upon the insinuations Higgins and the others had made against Ranchman Ford, but the same power that had urged him to seek a job of this man whispered to him that he had nothing to fear. Dismissing all forebodings, therefore, Bob began to wonder if there could be any connection between Ford, the man with the scar and his father. The subject suggested so many possibilities and was, altogether, so vague, that, healthy-minded boy as he was, he decided not to ponder over it longer.