“Charlie,” said Young Van, “keep this man safe until the sheriff comes back.”
“All right, sir,” Charlie replied.
The cook turned away with his prisoner, and Young Van’s eyes sought the ground. He had almost come to blows with his brother, and that before the men, about the worst thing that could have taken place. The incident seemed the natural culmination of these days of depression and pulling at odds.
“It looks like the sheriff coming in now, sir.”
Young Van started and looked up. Charlie, still grasping the stranger, was pointing down the track, where a troop of horsemen could be seen approaching. They drew rapidly nearer, and soon the two leaders could be distinguished. One was unmistakably Bowlegged Bill Lane. The other was a slender man, hatless, with rumpled hair, and a white handkerchief bound around his forehead. Young Van walked out to meet them, and saw, with astonishment, that the hatless rider was Paul Carhart; and never had face of man or woman been more welcome to his eyes.
The troop reined up, dismounted, and mopped their sweating faces. Their horses stood damp and trembling with exhaustion. All together, the little band bore witness of desperate riding, and to judge from certain signs, of fighting.
“Well, Gus,” said Carhart, cheerily, “how is everything?”
But Young Van was staring at the bandage. “Where have you been?” he cried.
“Chasing Jack Flagg.”
“But they hit you!”