"Ain't very communicative, be yer, stranger?"
"Wa'al, you see, we ain't had a regular introduction," rejoined Pete, with range humor, a grin spreading over his countenance.
"My name's Jim Hicks; I'm prospecting up through this yer God-forsaken place."
"Mine's Peter Aloysius Archibald De Peyster," rejoined Coyote Pete, and, although he then gasped in amazement, Jack was later to learn that this was the redoubtable cow-puncher's real name. In fact, he had had more than one fight on account of it.
"Don't laugh," he warned.
"Not a snicker," was the reply, "but that sure is a fancy name, stranger. Sounds like a Christmas tree, all lights, and tinsel, and glitter."
"Humph," rejoined the cow-puncher, glancing sharply at the other, but, perceiving no sign of amusement on that leathern countenance, he went on, "and this is my young friend, Jack Merrill, the son of Merrill, the cattle-man."
"Say," burst out Jack, who had been doing some thinking, "are you J. H.?"
"That is my usual initials," rejoined the prospector, bending a keen glance on the boy.
"Ho—ho—ho!" laughed Pete, "I reckon we crossed your trail to-day. Did you mislay a wash-pan?"