“Naturally,” remarked his companion. “And I’m goin’ to give you a cow pony thet’s about as slick a piece o’ horse flesh as they is in these parts.”
Roy stopped. That was a dream of his life.
“Colonel Weston,” he almost shouted, “you’re a brick.”
[CHAPTER VIII]
THE TRAIL AT LAST
“E yawp!”
Roy awoke, rose on his elbow to get his bearings, and then remembering that he was in Mrs. Weston’s “spare” bed, turned out and rushed to the window. “Sink Hole” Weston was entering the house.
It was nearly five o’clock and time to be off. The newly awakened boy lost no time. All his preparations had been made the night before. After writing letters he had laid out his new togs and packed his “shore” clothes, as he called them, in the suit-case. As he donned his gray flannel, his khaki, his new hat, and his boots, his heart fluttered like that of the youngster with his first long trousers.
Then he paused, in doubt. Hearing Mr. Weston in the adjoining room, he peeked cautiously through a narrow crack in the door. His heart leaped again. The one-time real estate agent and now plainsman once more had made no half way change. Dangling at his right leg was a holster and revolver. Roy, almost catching his breath for joy, made the finishing touch to his own get-up. Buckling on his belt, already carefully stuffed with ammunition, the boy felt the caress of the new automatic against his hip and leg and his happiness was nearly complete.