“Uh-huh—blamed near got him, too, only I was watchin’ the trail. Let’s travel, gents. We got to git home ’fore dark.”
“You seem to have met before,” observed Arnold.
“Once or twice,” said Robinson, and chuckled. A huge billow of laughter shook the big frame of Jake Harper, as though there were some unuttered joke.
After this they rode on in silence. Jake Harper, old Indian fighter, ex-scout, plainsman, and borderer, was plainly in high fettle over the day’s events. Every now and again his eye rested upon the slim figure of Jack Robinson, and a vast good humor rolled into his features. The presence of this young man appeared hugely gratifying to him.
“Ain’t been so happy,” he blurted, breaking the silence only once, “since me and ol’ John Parker met up with Gen’ral Reno one day in San Francisco, all three of us plumb lonesome, and not knowin’ they was a friend in ten miles. Sure is good to see ye, boy.”
Robinson nodded, but did not respond.
It was dusk when they reached the Harper ranch. Robinson left his pinto at the corral, shook hands with half a dozen punchers whom he could scarcely see, and followed Jake Harper to the big house on the knoll. As soon as he set foot in the porch, Jake turned.
“The house is yourn!” he said emphatically. “Set an’ talk! We eats with the boys when supper’s ready. Meantime, talk!”
“Suits me.” Robinson dropped into a chair. “You weren’t in town to-day?”
“Nope.” Jake Harper lowered his bulk into a groaning rocker. “I got so danged much rheumatiz lately it’s knocked me up. You didn’t meet Mig Cervantes?”