“Is that you, Lance?” asked the man.
“It shore is—an’ two ladies,” said the cow-puncher, proudly.
“Don’t tell ’em we come this way, Lance,” called a shriller voice, which Dorothy knew must belong to the girl, as the couple passed and urged their ponies to a gallop.
“Jerusha Juniper! is it you, Colt—and you, Molly Crater? I’ll be blessed! Tell on yuh? Reckon not—ef Colt’s fin’lly got up his spunk tuh take yuh right from under the ol’ man’s nose, Molly.”
“Oh! what is it?” cried Tavia.
Lance began to laugh—and he laughed loudly, sagging from side to side in his saddle.
“’Scuse me, Ma’am!” he finally got breath to say. “But ef that ain’t th’ beatenes’!”
“Maybe it is,” said Tavia, with sarcasm. “But until you are a little more explicit, Mr. Lance, I don’t see how we can join in your hilarity.”
“Ain’t it so?” drawled Lance, still bubbling over with laughter.
“Do be still, Tavia!” exclaimed Dorothy, admonishingly. “Give Mr. Lance a chance to tell us.”