A man mounted on a trim bay horse was seen advancing at a long, swinging lope, quite near. He had drawn close during the dialogue, unnoticed, and was coming boldly on, as if he feared no danger. Simpson immediately recognized him.
“Cimarron Jack!” he cried. “Gee-menentli! hooray!”
The rider stopped and drew a revolver.
“Who is there?” he demanded, in a rich, musical voice, with a purity of accent rarely seen on the southern plains.
“Tim Simpson, the guide!”
“Is that so? Hurrah! I’m Cimarron Jack, the tiger, and I’m a thorough-bred from Tartary, I tell you.”
Belting his revolver, he struck spurs to his splendid bay, and the next moment was heartily shaking Simpson by the hand, wrenching it violently.
“I’m an elephant, I am!” he shouted, in stentorian tones, addressing the entire party. “I’m a Feejee dancing-master, and where’s the man that’ll say ‘boo’ to this chap? I’m the fellow who killed cock-robin!”
“You are jest in time, Jack,” said the guide. “We want yer ter help us.”
Nowhere in America do men come so quickly “to the point,” as on the vast South-western plains. Meet a friend you have not seen for years—he is in trouble, mayhap. You have scarcely time to greet him before he informs you of his embarrassment, and requests your immediate assistance. You instantly, if you are a “plainsman,” grant his request—it is often policy to do so.