“I declare, that little chap is a nuisance,” grumbled Tom Clifton. “The buckboard is at least a mile behind. Why, he hasn’t a bit of pluck. Jed offered him the tamest nag in the stable. Crickets! Even then he was afraid.”
“But you must remember that a city lad can’t be expected to ride bronchos,” laughed Bob. “He isn’t a seasoned veteran like you, Tom.”
Tom drew himself up with conscious pride.
“I know, Bob; but I had to make a start. Say, Cranny, isn’t he the freshest little dub? If he weren’t your father’s ward, I’d have taught him a lesson before this.”
“Ha, ha!” roared Cranny. “How wee Willie in the buckboard would tremble if he only heard that. Whoa, boy—whoa! Bet the sight of those longhorns has given him the shivers. See any one in the ranch-house, Bob?”
“No!”
“Then let’s give a rousing yell. Whoa, you pesky little beast. Ho, ho! Remember that big pine, fellows? Wonder if any of the charred hills are left.”
“It was a dandy old tree,” said Tim Lovell, his words somewhat disconnected by the erratic movements of his lively little broncho.
“Didn’t take our old friend Hap Hazard long to do the business for it, though,” roared Dick. “Dave, let’s hear you try to make a noise like an Indian.”
“Give a good old cowboy yell,” said Cranny. “Gee Whitaker, but isn’t this just like old times! Bother the buckboard! Come on.”