“Oh, will, boys,” said Pat, “there’s more for them as likes it.” He raised the bottle and took another drink.
A wild thumping of horses’ hoofs was heard outside. The boys jumped up and reached the door just as a band of half-tipsy cowboys from Morgan’s and other ranches, with Bud Nixon at their head, charged up to the shack. They checked their ponies with a suddenness that sent the gravel flying in front of them.
“Hello, you stags!” shouted Nixon; “got anything to drink?”
“Sure an’ we have,” returned Pat; “bring the bucket, Tiddy, and water ’em.”
“Oh, to hell with your water; give us some whisky.”
“Well, seein’s it’s you,” said Jim, reaching up the flask. It soon went the rounds and returned empty.
“Got any race horses?” said Nixon.
“Yes, a whole herd of ’em that can kick dust in your eyes.”
“Talk’s cheap, but it takes money to buy whisky. Bet ye my bridle ’gin yours that my horse can outrun yours.”
“It’s a go. Your bridle’s mine,” said Jim, starting for the barn, while the rest of the boys continued bantering one another and matching their ponies for other races.