"If it wa’n’t fer yer Uncle Samuel’s long arm of the law, Doc," the stage-driver informed him as he was disposing of potatoes and pork, "I’d leave my stage right here and see ye wind all them stiff rags around that there leg. I’d like t’ see th’ finish s’ long as I seen the beginnin’. But the trouble with bein’ stage skinner is, ye’ve got t’ hike along no matter what shows ye come acrost on the trail. Hand them spuds acrost, Doc, will ye? Hank, if ye’d let ’em smell fire a minute ’r two mebby I could drive my fork int’ ’em."
A few minutes later, he arose from the bench, drew the back of his hand across his mouth and addressed Weston. "Wall, I suppose you’ll be ready t’ be boosted onto the stage when I come back in th’ mornin’? S’ long."
Scarcely had his four bronchos topped the hill on the further side of Dry Creek before a procession, the like of which Ross had never seen, appeared on the trail the other side of the dugout. It was a pack outfit on horses accompanied by a man and a boy. It slowly rounded the shoulder of the hill behind the corral. The man rode ahead whistling gaily, his sombrero pulled low over his eyes, a purple tie knotted under the turn-over collar of his flannel shirt. His horse’s tail was tied to a rope which, in turn, was tied loosely about the neck of the first pack animal. In similar fashion the five bronchos were held together on the trail, and after them came a horse ridden by a boy about Ross’s height. On the pack animals were wooden saddles piled high with supplies for a camp, boxes and bags securely roped to the saddles.
Hank, in the act of clearing the dishes from the bare board table, stopped with a platter of boiled turnip and pork suspended in the air. "By the great horn spoon!" he yelled, "if there don’t come Wishin’ Wilson! And a pack outfit! Is my eyes a-foolin’ me? Doc, look out. Is it a five bronc outfit, or ain’t it?"
"It certainly is," confirmed Ross.
He arose from his seat on the floor where he was working in the plaster and stepped to the door. But Hank was before him holding up the platter of food.
"Hey, there, Wishin’! Here’s some come-backs hot fer ye! Where’d ye come from? Where ye goin’ and what fer and how long and why and all the rest?" Evidently the newcomer was one of the kind that could safely be questioned, for Hank turned himself into a great interrogation point as he set the platter down, and rushing out, pulled the stranger from his horse, shaking him in familiar bear play.
Ross watched while the train filed slowly up to the dugout, bringing the boy’s mount to rest in front of the door.
The young rider wore a new brown corduroy suit, and a long fur coat, the skirts of which were drawn up awkwardly above a pair of high riding boots and tucked under the rider’s legs. A pair of shining silver spurs adorned the heels of the boots, while a sealskin cap crowned a head covered with closely cropped hair darker than Ross’s. His eyes also were darker and his figure, although of the same height, was more slender than Ross’s. He was also, apparently, a couple of years younger.
The two boys nodded at each other, Ross with awkward cordiality and interest, the stranger carelessly and with unmistakable condescension. Swinging himself out of the saddle he said pleasantly but commandingly: