"T'ey see us alreaty," said Otto. "Kome on, poys."
"Whar you'uns goin' this time o' day?" demanded one of the men, as we rode up and saluted them. We recognized the speaker as Arkansaw Joe, a saloon-keeper in Fairlands of no particular reputation. Most of his companions evidently belonged to the same profession, though not so eminent as their leader; but the horsemen, I felt sure, were cowboys from the ranch to which we were going. Otto briefly explained our errand.
"It's only that Dutchman from beyond Garfield and the two tenderfoot kids," spoke another of the group. "I reckon they're all right."
Any foreigner is a Dutchman to a certain class of Americans. Otto had long since grown tired of explaining that he came from Bavaria, and no longer chafed against the classification. We were not so satisfied, but it did not seem wise to argue about it just then.
"You'll have a dandy time with that critter of yourn," remarked one of the ranchmen. "Hermann's picketed him for you, and he's tearin' mad. It'll be a regular circus to see you git him back."
"Wat you t'ink, Milt?" said Otto. "We ko pack for t'e fat'er—nit?"
"I 'low you'uns'll go straight on," interposed Arkansaw, meaningly. "We'uns are usin' this here trail to the east to-night, and it's all needed. 'Sides, the kids 'ud miss the fun with the Durham."
There was no mistaking this hint, and we took the trail for the ranch, Otto evidently worried, and Barney boiling over with indignation.
"Kids!" he exclaimed, scornfully, as we rode up the other side of the draw. "I'd like to show them—"
The rest remained unsaid, for down the trail came a jingling crowd of cowboys, and looking back as they rode past us, we saw them join the group around the fire.