“I guess there’s a lot of luck connected with it,” agreed Hashknife.
“A lot? It’s all luck. Brains don’t do yuh any good, unless yuh carry a horseshoe and a rabbit’s foot.”
Nan Whitlock was doing a lot of thinking about her luck, as the buckboard lurched over the rough road to the Box S. There was no question in her mind that she must get out of the Lobo Wells country before the following noon or go to jail. But how to get away without explaining? That was the rub.
Whispering and Larry kept up a spirited conversation, but Nan’s mind was too busy to allow her to join them. The boy seemed filled with joy over the prospect of living at the ranch, and boasted of his prowess with an axe.
“Yuh got to show me,” declared Whispering. “I’ve seen a lot of you braggin’ cowboys, old timer. How are yuh with a rope?”
“Pretty good,” admitted the seven-year-old.
“Don’t mean a thing. We’ve got to have ’em perfect.”
“Well, I can practice, can’t I?”
“Shore. Work yore string on the cat. When yuh can forefoot a cat, yo’re a dinger. I used to know a Mexican who could rope lizards with a fish line. How are yuh with a six-gun, Larry?”
“I never had one.”