“Yes,” answered Bob, frankly. “But we stood up for you as solidly as a stone wall, Jed.”
The policeman had been able to bear his capture and imprisonment with fortitude; he had accepted it as one of those incidents liable to happen to one in his position. But the thought of having the stigma of “deserter” attached to his name made his blood fairly boil.
“Come on, Bob,” he exclaimed. “I can’t lose another instant. I reckon your horse can carry double. We’ll hit the trail for Jerry Duncan’s.”
“Jerry Duncan’s?” queried Bob, in surprise. “Why not Hank Styles’, where I left the crowd?”
“Because Duncan’s is nearer. Besides, a good trail leads there. And from his ranch-house you can skirt around the hills and reach Hank Styles’ without any trouble.”
Dashing back into the cabin Jed Warren reappeared a moment later with his scarlet coat—the coat he had worn so proudly.
“Where’s your horse, Bob?” he demanded, hurriedly. “I reckon you know how I feel about this thing. Nobody before ever said that Jed Warren weren’t on the square.”
“And I don’t believe anybody ever will again,” said Bob, emphatically. “If those chaps had known you half as well as we do, Jed, they never could have believed it possible.”
The athletic young policeman drew himself up to his full height, and there was a huskiness in his voice as he exclaimed:
“Bob, when you an’ your crowd are friends to a feller you’re real friends. Shake!”