With a yell as loud as any Indian war-whoop the Rambler sprang to his feet, in his haste almost sprawling over the prostrate form of Larry Burnham, who, aroused in this startling fashion, added a weird cry to the din. This was about the last thing in the world the blond lad had expected.
He rubbed his eyes. Could it be possible? Yes, the whole crowd was there. The early morning sunlight bathed them in a rosy glow, while from revolvers and horses’ trappings came flashes and streaks of gleaming light.
“Bob Somers!” cried the delighted Tom, darting forward. “Great Scott, but this is jolly—a glorious surprise!”
“Aye, aye! It certainly is,” admitted Witmar.
“I’m nearly bowled over!” cried Larry.
A chorus of salutations came from the newcomers. They were all in a hilarious frame of mind. Thunderbolt’s coppery-hued visage, too, expressed the pleasure he felt.
“Didn’t expect us, eh?” laughed Bob. “Mighty glad to see you, Larry.”
Larry Burnham felt decidedly sheepish, for he realized that he had put the crowd to a great deal of trouble.
“They must think I played a mighty mean trick on ’em,” he mentally concluded. “Hang it all, I don’t see why I ever did such a thing!”
He waited in anticipation of either complaint or sarcastic remarks, but, to his surprise and gratitude, none came.