"Sh!" interrupted Hank tiptoeing into the shack. "Guess he’s asleep, ain’t he?" He explained over his shoulder in a hoarse whisper. "Chap named Weston that come this way three weeks ago and bust his leg out in front, here. Hoss fell on him."
Wilson, who followed at Hank’s heels, looked Weston over with friendly but detached interest. "On the mend, is he?" asked the newcomer subduing his voice with difficulty.
Hank forgot to continue his whisper. "You bet!" he exclaimed heartily. "Doc here is a-mendin’ him t’ beat anything I ever seen from a full sized doctor." He jerked his thumb toward Ross. "Doc’s goin’ to have him all plastered up and out of here to-morrow."
Wishing looked at Ross with a pleasant nod, stepped over the bench and was about to seat himself at the table when he bethought him suddenly of his riding companion. Leaning forward he looked out of the doorway. Then with a nod he sat down and forgetting that Weston was supposedly sleeping, raised his voice again to its normal high key.
"Fetch on them come-backs, Hank. My pard’ll be here in a minute. I need t’ git the start of him in eating always, fer he ain’t long on grub such as we shake out here. I expect," with an amused chuckle, "that it ain’t exactly what he’s used to."
Hank slapped his knee and leaned forward. "Say, Wishin’, how d’ye come t’ be hikin’ over the country with Queen Victory’s youngest? My eyes! Ain’t he a reg’lar ornament t’ th’ landscape?"
Wishing Wilson laughed softly and then glancing hastily from Ross to Weston, shook his head at Hank. "Less is all right!" he declared cautiously. "He’s young yet. Lots of time to learn–more time ’n you and me have, Hank."
Hank set coffee before his guest, asking, "Who is he and where does he hail from?"
Wilson squared himself before the table, both arms resting thereon and began to eat noisily, talking between knifefuls.
"Luckiest thing for me that ever struck the trail, that young feller is," he began. "I was stranded down in Omaha without a red cent in my pocket and no way of raisin’ one. If you’ll believe me I couldn’t find a man in Omaha with brains enough to believe in them claims of mine, no, not with the ore assay report before their eyes. I tell ye, Hank, times have changed down in Omaha. There wa’n’t no grub-stakers waitin’ around like there used to be fer prospectors to snatch up–no, not one. And just as I was gettin’ plum used up talkin’, this young feller, Less Jones, fell onto me outer a clear sky. It was in a hotel where I went t’ talk with a drummer, but not t’ eat. Why, Hank, yer Uncle Wilson didn’t have the price of a hotel dinner handy, and that drummer never treated me! Well, I stood tryin’ to persuade him that his salary was burning fer investment in my claims, when in comes Less and lined up ’longside me listenin’. I hadn’t any kind of objection to his hearin’, but he looked like such a cub that I never paid no attention t’ ’im, but when the drummer said a final ’Nix,’ Less he stepped up and asked me about the claims, and, t’ make a long story short, before the end of the day I was hikin’ over town hot footed on the trail of supplies with Less at my heels with an open pocketbook."