“How long are you going to hang around these parts?” demanded Styles.
“Some considerable time,” replied Tom, greatly to the astonishment and disgust of Larry Burnham; “and we’re going to camp right within sight of your ranch-house. It’s dangerous out on the plains after dark. I was attacked the other night; and if I ever run across the chap who did it he’ll get all that’s coming to him.”
Then, while the occupant of the ranch eyed him with a peculiarly sinister expression, Tom began striding toward the dilapidated building.
“Hold on, there!” The command came sharp and peremptory. “You’re in an awful big hurry, ain’t you? Can’t even wait till a man tells you he’s ready!”
“Better picket your horse, Tom,” cautioned Sam Randall.
Bob Somers, viewing the trend of affairs with considerable surprise, exchanged a significant look with Dave, who immediately eased himself from his saddle with a sigh of relief.
“I’ll follow your example, Tom,” said the writer, as the tall boy drove in a picket pin.
“So shall I,” said Bob.
Larry Burnham was considerably astonished also, but in a different way. He regarded the action of the Ramblers as a decidedly cool proceeding. Here they were practically forcing themselves upon a man whose every action indicated that their presence was by no means welcome.
“I don’t wonder Hank Styles looks a bit peeved,” he reflected. “Gee! It’s certainly awful nerve on their part.”