“For all that,” mused Power aloud, “I’ll call on Mr. Francis Willard, tomorrow.”
So this resolution explained the light conveyance standing outside the store next morning. Power was in the act of settling himself as comfortably as might be beside the driven, when One-thumb Jake galloped down the slope leading from the Gulch. The cowboy pulled up in the approved style of his tribe, swung out of the saddle, and banged into the veranda a decrepit portmanteau, which he had been carrying in the thumbless hand.
“Room an’ drink fer a single gent!” he shouted. “I’m an orfin, I am, a pore weak critter slung out inter a crool world!”
“You’re never leaving the Willard outfit, Jake?” said Power, who might well be surprised, since the man had been connected with the Dolores ranch since the first lot of cattle was turned loose on its pastures.
“That’s about the size of it,” said the other.
“But why?”
“The old man says, ‘Git!’ an’ I got.”
“No reason?”
“Wall, if you squeeze it outer me, I’ll be squoze. In a sort of a way, it had ter do with you.”
“With me?”