"Huh-huh!" she agreed. "Let's sit down and talk over old times. Do you remember, Lafe, the grass fights we used to have? You were an awful cheat."
"That's a lie, ma'am! Leastways, it ain't true. You done put a lizard down my back with a bunch of grass."
They were in high glee when a clatter of hoofs broke in on them. It startled Mrs. Floyd.
"What's that? Who's that?"
Two riders pulled up in front of the house, and Floyd stepped stiffly out of the saddle. He gave the reins to Miguel, who disappeared toward the corrals at a gallop. The boss was spattered with mud, and wringing wet and dog-weary. As he came into the light, he dragged his feet, and water ran in streams from his overalls and seeped from his boots.
"Tom!" His wife ran to him.
"Don't," he said. "I'm soaking."
"How did you get here? Mercy! You're a sight. Don't let the rain drip on the rug! Stand over here."
"How's the bridge, Floyd?" Johnson asked.
"The bridge is down," the boss answered. "We done swum the river." Then he chuckled grimly. "Miguel, he was plumb scared, but I pulled a gun on him and made him go ahead."