This amused the tourist. “You think I have a ‘brogue,’ do you?”
“I don’t think it—I know it!” Bill replied, shortly.
He was prevented at the moment from pursuing this line of inquiry by the discovery of a couple of horsemen racing from a distant ranch toward the road. It was plain, even to the stranger, that they intended to intercept the stage, and Bill plied the lash with sudden vigor.
“I’ll give ’em a chase,” said he, grimly.
The other appeared a little alarmed, “What are they—bandits?”
“Bandits!” sneered Bill. “Your eyesight is piercing. Them’s girls.”
The traveler apologized. “My eyes aren’t very good,” he said, hurriedly.
He was, however, quite justified in his mistake, for both riders wore wide-rimmed sombreros and rode astride at a furious pace, bandanas fluttering, skirts streaming, and one was calling in shrill command, “Oh, Bill!”
As they neared the gate the driver drew up with a word of surprise. “Why, howdy, girls, howdy!” he said, with an assumption of innocence. “Were you wishin’ fer to speak to me?”
“Oh, shut up!” commanded one of the girls, a round-faced, freckled romp. “You know perfectly well that Berrie is going home to-day—we told you all about it yesterday.”