Tommy had intended to take a seat in the buckboard, but upon hearing a remark from Willie which seemed to indicate no great opinion of his prowess as a broncho rider, he reconsidered.
“What, Mr. Clifton, air ye a-goin’ ter ride?” asked Willie, mockingly. “Why, say, pard, ye’ll hev ter hold yer feet up, or ye’ll furrow the prairie.”
“I’ll make you an astronomer some day, William—astronomers see stars, you know,” quoth Tom, highly exasperated.
“I guess I’ll never see a star in you,” retorted Willie, impudently.
Dave had already seated himself in the buckboard, and Willie climbed indolently up beside him, while Sam, yielding to Dick Travers’ earnest request to ride one of the bronchos, also took his place in the rig.
It wasn’t an easy matter to dispose of their belongings, especially as some of them had to be strapped to the mustangs’ backs, and these little beasts were absolutely averse to such a proceeding. But, in spite of wildly gyrating bodies, wicked snorts and glaring eyes, the work was finally accomplished.
Even Willie’s tired air vanished, as he watched the boys spring into the saddle and stick there, although their mounts seemed to jump about as though endowed by nature with springs of steel.
“Oh, just look at Mr. Clifton!” roared Willie. “My, oh, my! Hold your feet up, Thomas. Gee! There’ll be seventeen hundred holes in the earth by the time we reach the farmhouse. Look——”
The sharp cracking of Jed Warren’s quirt, followed by a sudden jolt of the buckboard, ended Willie’s sentence. There was a clatter of horses’ hoofs and the swift whirr of rapidly-revolving wheels, and thick clouds of dust began to trail behind them.
The extent of Border City’s development surprised the Ramblers. They were quickly whirled past the new Carroll Inn, a grain elevator, the Wyoming Flour Company’s big mill adjoining, and, upon turning a bend in the crooked street, saw rows of neat little houses.