“And Dave is——”
But whatever information Tim seemed about to impart regarding the stout boy’s future was abruptly interrupted by the noisy entrance of three cow-punchers. Big, brawny men they were, too. And the moment their eyes rested on the boys they voiced a loud, hearty welcome.
“Sam Skillet, Wyoming Tom and Straight-backed Pete Sanderson!” cried Bob, as the crowd rushed forward to shake their hands.
The first thing which forcibly struck Willie Sloan was that Sam Skillet possessed a voice of the most extraordinary power; and the second, that Wyoming Tom, the half-breed, was the perfect picture of an outlaw. Willie stared hard at them with unabashed curiosity, and hesitatingly placed his small white hand into the huge brown paws which the cow-punchers, each in turn, held toward him.
“Yes, them fellers over to Lone Pine hev been a-goin’ up in their air-ship most every day, Bob.” Skillet’s great voice rang through the room. “An’ if it ain’t the wonderfulest thing ye may call me a maverick to onct.”
“Maverick! What’s a maverick?” asked Willie.
“I’ll tell you,” answered Cranny. “A good many years ago, a man named Maverick went out to Texas to run a ranch. He was such a soft-hearted chap that he’d never brand a steer or slice its ears, an’ the way dishonest stockmen swiped them was simply awful. Out here, they sometimes call an easy mark a maverick.”
“Wal, as I were about to say, them air-ships flies jist like birds,” went on Sam Skillet; “but ye’d never ketch me a-goin’ up in one, pard; no—not fur a thousand head o’ the finest bullocks in Wyoming.”
“Nor me, nuther,” grunted the half-breed, decidedly.
“Only hope I get a chance at it,” laughed Bob.