"Wait!" Ned said. "It was Horace M. Lyman you worked for, eh?"
"Sure. He's an American, and a fine fellow."
"Well," Jimmie cut in, "you're likely to see him if you stick around here. They geezled him, so another gazabo could get his concession."
"And marooned him off here? Is that it?" asked the stranger. "Well, there's a pair of us, then, that don't find anything nourishing in the scenery. Where is he?"
"We haven't found him yet," Ned answered, "but we're on the trail. If you had one more can of beans, do you think you could help us hunt him up?"
"Certainly. Of course. I'll do that without the beans, but—"
"I see," Ned answered. "You haven't the strength, just now, to do much looking. All right, we'll fat you up, and then—"
Ned did not complete the sentence, for a long, wavering call came from the west, and the stranger started off in that direction without a word of explanation. Ned wondered for a moment whether this fellow wasn't another hypocrite of the Collins stripe.
"Wait a minute!" he exclaimed. "Suppose you tell us something about that call?"
"I'm agreeable," replied the other. "Don't you know what that
coo-coo-ee-ee is? Then you've never lived in the cattle country.
That is a cowboy salute, pard, and my private opinion is that Horace
M. Lyman is the party that uttered it."