He drew up at sight of a horseman who had suddenly appeared in the road ahead, riding toward him. On closer sight, this man appeared to be a young fellow, whose right leg had been freshly bandaged above the knee; chaps and trousers were bundled behind him on the saddle, and from waist to boots his costume consisted of red flannel. He reined in before Robinson and nodded greeting, his eye running over the stranger critically.
“Howdy, pilgrim! Jest out from town?”
“C’rect the first shot, sure’s my name’s Jack Robinson!” was the cheerful response. “And I’d admire to know who’s settin’ the new range styles this-away! I never did see such fine red color in all my days. I’ll have to get me some underwear that same shade.”
The young fellow chuckled. “My name’s Arnold,” he offered. “By that brand, you must ha’ come up from the south, Robinson? Used to be down in Pecos County my ownself, last year; was ridin’ for ol’ man Zimmer.”
“Then,” drawled Robinson, “I reckon you done heard of Pete Hendricks?”
“Friend of yours?” queried Arnold.
“Yep.”
“Shake.” Arnold suddenly beamed in a wide grin and extended his hand. The two shook vigorously. “Me and Pete was sure some bunkies. Say, I most forgot! Did you meet a couple of riders back a ways?”
Robinson inspected him quizzically.
“Friends of yours?” he retorted. Arnold flushed violently and pointed to his underwear.