“Yeah, and the last time I climbed him he piled me quick,” laughed Buck. “Let Peeler do it.”
“After pay-day,” grinned Peeler. “I don’t want to die with money comin’ to me.”
“Pshaw, I’ll ride him myself,” said Marion.
Her father laughed and turned toward the gate when two men rode around from behind the bunk-house and came up to them. It was Scotty Olson, the sheriff, and Al Porter, the deputy. Porter was a big man, dark-featured, with a nose entirely too large for the rest of his face, and very flat cheekbones.
“Hyah, Sheriff,” greeted Taylor. “Howdy.”
The sheriff removed his hat and bowed awkwardly to Marion—
“Howdy, Miss Taylor.”
“Hello, Sheriff,” replied the girl.
Olson rubbed a huge hand across his big mustaches. There was still a lump on his forehead, where he had bumped himself on the floor in the Oasis.
“Just gettin’ in?” queried Porter, glancing at the horses.