A new voice had broken into the conversation. That of Clark Jennings. He nursed above his right eye a rapidly swelling "goose egg," marking the spot at which he had collided with the roadway. At his elbow was the faithful Jess Randell.
"Why, hello, Clark, you in town, too? Every one from the Santa Catapinas seems to be in to-day—you, too, Jess. Well, the Indians paid us their little call just this side of the Salt Licks,—why?"
"Oh, jes' wanted to know. Me and Jess has got to ride home that way to-night, for it's better riding when it's cool; and I thought I'd like to know whar to expect the varmints."
"Well, that's the best information I can give you," said Harry, "but what have you been doing to your eye?"
"Oh, nothing," muttered Clark, turning away, while a loud guffaw went up.
"What's all the joke,—what is it?" asked Harry. It was soon explained, and the young rancher burst into a laugh.
"Say, Rob, you must mean to clean the country of bad men. Trimmed Clark Jennings! Ho, ho, ho!"
"Has he much of a reputation?" inquired Rob innocently, but with a twinkle in his eye.
"I should say so. He won't forgive you in a hurry. He's going to be your neighbor, too, for a while."
"How's that?"