“Never mind what I thought,” he remarked. “It’s too late now to cry over spilt milk. We got through, didn’t we? And we’ve had experiences that will always stay with us. That’s enough. And, at last, we can see our goal just ahead.”
“Hurrah for the Double Cross Ranch!” exclaimed Jimmy.
The half-dozen cowboys came whirling toward them, shouting, swinging their hats, and riding as only punchers on the plains can.
“Remember, everybody,” warned Ned, “not a word about that hawk and pigeon episode.”
“We understand what you mean, Ned,” Harry replied.
Presently the mad riders came galloping up in a cloud of alkali dust.
“Told you so, boys!” cried a tall rangy fellow, who sat his pony as though he might be a part of the animal—one of those Centaurs of old. “Ketch on to the scout togs, would you? Say, are you Harry Stevens?”
He had unconsciously picked out Ned when asking this question, because he must have somehow seen that he was the leader; perhaps, it was partly from his looks; and, then again, the fact that Ned had no burro to take care of, while all his companions did, may have had something to do with it.
“No, but I’m his chum, Ned Nestor. That’s Harry over yonder, and I reckon now that we’re glad to be at the Double Cross.”
“But where’d you come from, pard?” demanded the cowboy, who had thrown one leg over his saddle, the better to talk.