"We'll lend you a horse."
"Thanks, but I can walk better without one."
"I see you walking ten miles at this hour o' the night, I do?" jeered Dakota.
"I wouldn't think of taking you from your own comfortable ranch for such a trifling spectacle. I won't mind if you take it for granted.... But perhaps a horse would be company. Lead me to it."
He pushed past Dakota and started toward the ranch buildings, the foreman following, obviously ill at ease. As they neared the cook-house door a sly smile crossed the latter's face. Several cowboys came out.
"I've found it, boys!" yelled Dakota, with a wide grin. "The only and original tenderfoot—guaranteed to eat peas with a fork, crease his pants every month, say 'fudge' when he means 'damn,' and take a saddle-horn for the back of a rocking chair. Only he doesn't like us. He's decided to move on. We're bold bad men. Alkali, trot out Joe-Joe."
Dakota's grin repeated itself in several faces. Stamford, aware that silence was safest, said nothing until Dakota was through.
"It's a shame to inflict myself to the extent of a horse on your already overtaxed hospitality," he said. "I promise to pay livery rates."
"Best put it on yer will, ole hoss, an' right now," drawled Bean Slade through the whiffs of a cigarette.
Stamford looked up with a glint of understanding.