Evidently mistaking his question for a command the bronchos stopped so suddenly that it was only by the merest chance that Slim saved himself from pitching over the dashboard.
"What the Sam Hill's got infer yer onery hides?" he shouted as he drew himself back onto the seat. "Seem's how ye think I got no right ter give orders, but I'll larn ye if ye go ter cuttin' up any more didoes. Now yer better start up easy like 'f ye want ter keep yer skins on whole."
As if sensing that the driver meant business the bronchoes started off again this time breaking into a swift trot which seemed to suit Slim, for he settled back in his seat with a sigh of relief. An hour later the buckboard swung into the main street of the sleepy little town of Cold Springs and on toward the station at the farther side.
"Yep, train's on time. Be here in 'bout twenty minutes more or less," the station agent old him as he paused by the open window.
But it was nearly an hour before the train pulled in and Slim, pacing up and down the platform nearly had, what he called, the fidjets before the whistle was heard far down the line. But nearly all things come to an end sooner or later and he brightened up as he saw two boys, the only passengers to alight, swing off the rear steps as the train came to a standstill.
A large trunk was dropped from the baggage car to the platform and in a moment the train had disappeared around a curve just beyond the town.
"Guess them's my freight, all right," Slim muttered to himself as he stepped toward them. "You the fellers what's goin' out ter the Lazy S?" he asked pausing a few feet away.
"Yes, sir, that's where we want to go," Bob replied.
"Well I come in ter git ye."
"Then you must be Mr. Jones."