There was a vibrant silence, during which the trampling of the restless ponies’ hoofs and the hard breathing of Shorty were the only sounds to break the stillness.
“Git!”
The order came like the crack of a rifle.
Shorty seemed to wither and grow smaller and darker as he heard.
“Captain, I————” he stammered out. But Atkinson cut him short abruptly.
“You heard me. Git! This isn’t a cow camp, but a regularly organized troop to enforce law and order. You set a fine example of lawlessness right in the town we have been sent to protect from that very thing. There’s your pony and here’s the pay that’s coming to you. Hit the trail, and hit it quick.”
“Don’t be too hard on him, captain. Give him one more chance. I guess it was only meant as horse play and not viciousness.”
Captain Atkinson turned his bronzed countenance on the speaker. It was Jack. Beside him Walt Phelps had reined up and Ralph Stetson, too, the latter having been attracted by the excitement from the side street where he had sought refuge at the boisterous entrance of the Rangers.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” he said. “Well, young chap, you’ve got nerve and sense; but this fellow doesn’t deserve any pity.”
“I’m sure he won’t do it again,” Jack assured the captain; “let him off this time. He’s been punished enough.”