Both men were dressed in range costume, well-worn, weathered. Their riding rigs were polished from much usage, and the boys from the AK noted that their belts and holsters were hand-made by men who knew the sag of human anatomy. The tall man removed his battered sombrero, disclosing a crop of roan-colored hair, and the wide grin, which suffused his whole face, showed a set of strong, white teeth.
“Howdy,” smiled the tall man. “Is this the road to Blue Wells?”
“It sure is,” grinned Johnny. He instinctively liked this tall man, whose grin was contagious.
“Well, that’s good,” nodded the shorter man.
Johnny Grant’s eyes had strayed to their two horses, which were branded on the left shoulder with a Circle X, the iron of a ranch about twelve miles east of Encinas.
“We’re goin’ to Blue Wells,” said Eskimo, “and we’ll see that yuh don’t stray.”
“That’s sure kind of yuh,” said the innocent-eyed one. “You don’t know what a load that takes off my mind.”
Eskimo squinted closely at him, but could not determine whether the man was joking or not. Johnny Grant moved his horse in closer.
“My name’s Grant,” he told them.
He turned in his saddle and introduced the others, concluding with Jimmy Legg, of whom he said: