“Waugh! Ye’re shore right thar. But et’s Red Steve as turned ther trick, ye kin take et from me. When’ll we ride?”
“Now.”
“Whoop! When ye tune up like thet, ye shore ketch me plumb whar I live. Spurs an’ quirts an’ a call on Hank Phelps. This hyar peace bizness is gittin’ some excitin’.”
Pinkney brought out their saddles and bridles. Bear Paw and old Hide-rack seemed surprised at the sudden getaway. Probably, in their brute minds, they had been expecting an all-night stay in the comfortable corral.
“It beats the nation,” remarked the scout, when he and his old pard were galloping along the trail, “what beastly luck comes Nate Dunbar’s way.”
“Some fellers,” commented old Nomad, “tumbles inter bad luck jest as nacherly as some others tumbles inter good. Nate’s shore gittin’ his share o’ misfortun’s hyar on ther Brazos.”
“And to have this happen,” frowned the scout, “just when we were having such good success as peace commissioners!”
“Ain’t thet allers ther way?” answered the trapper. “Did we ever start out ter do a sartin thing thet some other thing didn’t butt in on us? Thet sorter bizness comes so frequent, Buffler, et ort ter be expected. But, say!”
“Well?”
“Sarcumstances does look mighty bad for Nate, huh?”