"All right. Throw 'em in again an' hand 'em up."
When he had secured the load by means of his pack strings he turned to the rancher.
"So long, Johnson, an' if I was you I wouldn't lose no time in attendin' to the last solemn obsequies of them defunk dogies. I'll never squeal, but you can't tell how soon someone else might come a-ridin' along through the foot-hills."
CHAPTER XIII
A BOTTLE OF "HOOCH"
It was well past the middle of the afternoon when the Texan rode up the steep incline and unsaddled his horse. The occupants of the camp were all asleep, the girl in her little shelter tent, and Bat and Endicott with their blankets spread at some little distance away. Tex carried the outfit he had procured from Johnson into the timber, then crawled cautiously to the pilgrim's side, and awoke him without arousing the others.
"Hey, Win, wake up," he whispered as the man regarded him through a pair of sleepy eyes. "Come on with me. I got somethin' to show you." Tex led the way to the war-bag. "Them clothes of yourn is plum despisable to look at," he imparted, "so I borrowed an outfit offen a friend of mine that's about your size. Just crawl into 'em an' see how they fit."
Five minutes later the cowboy viewed with approval the figure that stood before him, booted and spurred, with his mud-caked garments replaced by corduroy trousers and a shirt of blue flannel against which the red silk muffler made a splotch of vivid colouring.
"You look like a sure enough top hand, now," grinned the Texan. "We'll just take a drink on that." He drew the cork from the bottle and tendered it to Endicott, who shook his head.
"No, thanks. I never use it."