“Jerusha Juniper!” he yelled. “MOTHER!”
The little old lady ran straight into his arms. The big cowpuncher caught her up and hugged her tightly. Even at that distance Dorothy could see the surprise and delight depicted upon his countenance.
“And we never dreamed,” murmured Tavia, “that ‘Lance’ was his first name.”
“She has found him; isn’t it delightful?” cried Dorothy, and she insisted upon climbing down and running to meet the little old lady from Rand’s Falls, Massachusetts, and her stalwart son.
“Mr. Lance!” she cried, “I am so delighted to see you. And to think we know your mother, and were just about to give her a ride when those horrid ponies ran away!”
“Jerusha Juniper, Miss!” said the cowboy. “However this old lady got clean out yere, I dunno. But maybe I ain’t glad to see her!”
He caught her up again in his arms, and Mrs. Petterby laughed and flushed like a girl. “Stop your silliness, Lance Petterby,” she ordered. “Set me down. Miss Dale will think ye ain’t got the sense ye was born with. And don’t let that boy drop Ophelia.”
It took some minutes to explain to the cowboy the present situation—and especially how his mother came to be on this lonely trail, afoot.
It seemed that he was often at the squatter—Nicholson’s—house and that was why people in Dugonne had advised Mrs. Petterby to look for Lance there.
They got the old lady into the coach and seated her with the chicken’s basket in her lap, and Mrs. White elected to get down and ride with her. The mustangs started on; Lance Petterby rode beside the stage. Dorothy noticed that the cowboy kept close to Tavia’s side.