"I've got to go fetch that locoed prospector," he confided. "Will you help?"
"Why not get some of the boys to round him up?" I objected, for the mail had brought some personal business that required thought.
"They might be rough with him. No, sir; we've got to bring him in gentle, Dan. It's the queerest story I ever done heard. Say, don't women do queer things? I swan, I can't figure 'em."
All of the afternoon and next morning we rode the slopes of The Hatter. Then suddenly we saw him. The prospector was catching grasshoppers. He made to run as we approached, but Lafe spurred his horse and headed him off. Seeing escape barred, he stood still and waited, not without dignity—if a man who is clutching a fist-full of grasshoppers can possess dignity.
"What do you want?" he demanded.
"Say, you speak French, don't you?"
"I can speak five languages, sir," said the prospector pompously. And he began to patter German.
"Well," Lafe resumed—and I could see he was impressed—"well, sir, there's a guy at the ranch who can't speak English very good. We want somebody to tell him what the ol' man wants—ol' Horne of the Anvil. If you'll come down—"
"I shall be very pleased."
"Good," Johnson said in surprise. "We've got some right good liquor there and I thought—"