Tom Gray explained that they had been ordered to leave the grazing grounds on the other side of the valley, and that the demand had been made in Hornby’s name. He also told Bindloss about the raid of the night before.
“A-huh! Hornby ain’t got no call to tell you to get out. A Mexican feller, you say? Probably one of the half-breeds that you’ll find all over the ranges, and a bad lot they are, too. I don’t reckon Hornby had to do with that.”
“Who do you think the raiders were?” questioned Grace.
“How do I know? I reckon, though, that mebby they were sent after you. Somebody don’t want you folks hangin’ ’round these diggin’s, but I reckon that Sam Conifer can take care of them. Eh, Sam?”
“I reckon, but honest, Joe, my rheumatiz crinkles my fingers so that I can’t throw a gun any more, let alone pulling the trigger,” complained Sam.
Bindloss laughed uproariously.
“The feller who reckons on gettin’ you because of your rheumatiz is a dead man before he leaves home that day. Say, folks, the boys are having a little shindy in the ranch-house this evenin’, and they’d be mighty pleased to have you all come over. The boys are a rough gang, but they will treat you fine, you ladies.”
“What kind of a shindy?” asked Nora.
“A dance. They have a fiddle and a fellow who scrapes it, and they may walk on your toes, but they’ll feel worse about it than you do.”
“Oh, goodie! A dance! Of course we will go. Come on, folks. Oh, Mr. Bindloss, do you ever dream?” asked Emma soberly.