“I got me a terrible toothache,” Allen volunteered to several punchers, as he was saddling the roan. They glanced at his bandaged face and offered various sure cures.
“Shucks! I think I’ll go to town an’ have the darn thing yanked out,” the little outlaw told them.
Bill McAllister and Allen skillfully cut some twenty horses from the milling crowd in the corral, drove them through the gate, and started them toward the cavvy. Among them was the gray.
As Allen swept by the twins and Spur Treadwell, Mac McGill watched him and then shook his head.
“He sure rides like him,” he said thoughtfully.
“He sure does,” Sandy agreed.
“Who’s that?” Spur Treadwell asked.
“Last night, in the bunk house, I was certain that kid was Jim Allen, but we jumped him an’ finds him naked like a baby,” Sandy explained.
“Yuh thought he was the Wolf?” Spur Treadwell asked. His eyes followed Allen.
“Yeh, but I reckon we was wrong,” Mac said indifferently.