The ranch-house was a solid, time-stained structure, its thick stone walls pierced at intervals by loopholes, for Circle T had been built at a period when bands of Indians on the war-path endangered the lives and property of the settlers.
Mr. Follett, a pleasant-looking gentleman whose brown beard and hair were streaked with gray, stood on the wide porch talking to the boys, his face wreathed in smiles, as the buckboard rolled up.
Almost before the wheels had ceased revolving, he hurried over to shake hands with the latest arrivals.
“I can’t tell you how pleased I am, boys,” he said, heartily. “And all your roughing-it experiences, Dave, haven’t thinned you a bit. Ah—and this is Willie Sloan! Bob has been talking to me about you, son. And Sam Randall, too! My goodness, how natural it seems to have all you lads here again.”
A slender youth suddenly darted from behind a pillar of the porch.
“Tim Lovell!” exclaimed Dave.
“Tim!” echoed Sam, heartily.
And then there was more hand-shaking and exclamations; and by the time calmness had been restored Jed Warren and the buckboard had disappeared behind the sheds in the rear of the ranch-house.
Willie Sloan looked about him with interest, but did not seem enthusiastic at the prospect of remaining several weeks at the ranch.
