“So do we,” Teddy interrupted. “But we don’t, yet. The doc’s in there fixing him up. By the way, Roy, when he comes out—” Teddy nodded significantly.
“Forget it!” his brother exclaimed. “You mean this scratch? I can’t tell it’s there.”
“Say, jingo, I never noticed that!” Bug Eye declared excitedly. “They get you too, Roy?” The puncher at this moment resembled a small boy who has just seen a circus wagon tip over. “When did that happen? The blamed polecats! Well, scorch my pants—”
“Switch over—you’re on the wrong track,” Roy said, with a grin. “This has got nothing to do with—him.” He jerked an expressive thumb. “I fell into the river and struck a rock. Teddy helped pull me out. That’s why we’re both rather damp. That’s all!”
“Oh,” said Bug Eye weakly. “I see.”
“Well, you old galoot!” Teddy cried. “I actually believe you’re disappointed! I bet you’d rather have him shot, wouldn’t you? Say, you have a fine nerve!”
“That ain’t so!” Bug Eye protested. “I thought maybe—”
“I know. I was only kidding,” Teddy said in a lower voice. “But we have other things to worry about now. I’d like to find out how much he was robbed of, if he was robbed.” He walked toward the corral, a little distance from the ranch house. “Let’s sit,” he suggested, and climbed to the top rail.
Roy and Bug Eye followed Teddy’s example.
“Say, one of the boys is fixin’ your bronc up,” Bug Eye said suddenly. “He’s got quite a few scratches, Roy.”