Tom was bombarded with questions. The minutest particulars were insistently demanded. Like a lawyer cross-examining a witness, Sam Randall drew from him all the particulars he could in regard to his mysterious assailant.
“My, what a pity you didn’t get a good view of the fellow’s face,” he exclaimed, finally. “Think you’d recognize him again?”
“You bet!” cried Tom—“and lined up among a dozen.”
The crowd was not satisfied until Larry Burnham’s experiences were related; and not once during the whole recital did they make any unfavorable comment. Of course Larry could see that all this must have been arranged beforehand; but it increased his feeling of gratitude, especially as his companions highly praised his action in so courageously following the three riders.
“After such thrilling tales our own seems tame enough,” said Bob. “Several hours after you had gone, Tom, as things began to get rather dull, we decided to make a run over to the settlement ourselves. We camped on those hills yonder for the night. Sam, who was the early morning watch, sighted the wagon—you know the rest.”
“You’re a great lot,” laughed Witmar. “What’s the next thing you’re going to be up to?”
“I heard there’s been quite a bit of cattle rustling going on around here. So I suppose there must be ranch-houses within easy riding distance?”
“Aye, aye!” said Witmar. “The nearest is Jerry Duncan’s. A fine chap he is, too. Jerry’s lost quite a bunch of steers.”
“If there’s a house so close I propose we call on the owner,” put in Dave Brandon. “After such a long ride we ought to have a good rest before going on our trip to the border.”
The thought of a nice big room proved so irresistible to the comfort-loving Dave that he spoke eloquently on the subject. And the crowd, never liking to go against his wishes, finally put the question to a vote.