“Oh, you can’t blame yourself,” said Bob, consolingly.
“I’m not so sure. I wouldn’t say it to everybody, Bob, but I kind o’ think their smooth, oily ways was what made me miss connections. It’s a bitter story, an’ it makes me feel mighty bitter to tell it.”
Bob nodded sympathetically.
“I were a-ridin’ about the prairie one black night when I happened to think that Hank Styles’ place was purty near. ‘Wal,’ says I, ‘it’s me for a canter over to the big front door.’”
“Ah!” cried Bob. “Now we’re coming to the climax.”
“Hank an’ a couple o’ his cowpunchers were there, an’, as usual, treated me jist as nice as pie. Though it did strike me they looked kind o’ odd. They kept sayin’: ‘Well, Jed, I guess you’ll be off in a few minutes, eh?’ ‘Nary,’ says I; ‘right here seems too good.’”
“What happened?” asked Bob, breathlessly.
“About an hour arterward I thought it were time to skip. So I mounted me nag an’ started to ride around the house. ‘Why, which way are you goin’, Jed?’ hollers one. ‘In the opposite direction from which I come,’ says I, laughin’. Hank Styles laughed, too. Wal, Bob, in a jokin’ sort o’ way, they tried to steer me off in another course. But, jist the same, I rides toward the rear, an’ almost bumps into a big wagon.”
“Ah ha!” exclaimed Bob.
“‘Hello!’ says I. ‘What’s this?’ ‘Only a chuck wagon full o’ grub for men on the range,’ replies a feller, in a queer kind o’ tone. All of a sudden, Bob, I got mighty suspicious, an’ managed to put my hand inside. It landed kerplunk on the knee o’ some one a-sittin’ there.”