A touch of his spurs, and the broncho shot straight as an arrow through the stockade entrance. The others swiftly followed.
The unsightly piles of rubbish which once lay about the enclosure had been cleared away, while weeds and straggling bushes no longer grew about in luxuriant profusion. Even the charred stump of the ancient pine was gone.
The pounding of horses’ hoofs, together with the whoops of six lusty-voiced boys, quickly roused the ranch-house. The heavy oaken door began to creak on its hinges, and before the bronchos had cantered up three men appeared on the steps.
“Hooray for the Lone Piners!” yelled Cranny, taking off his sombrero and waving it vigorously. “Good-morning! Whoop! Here we are again!”
“So I see, and just as lively as ever,” responded the youngest of the trio, smiling with pleasure. “Boys, we extend a most hearty welcome. The plains have seemed mighty dull since you left.”
“Very true, Ferd,” put in his father. “Just picket your horses, boys, and come right in.”
Most of the lads had vaulted from their saddles by the time these words were spoken, and, in a marvelously short time, pins were driven deep into the ground and the bronchos tethered. Then followed an enthusiastic shaking of hands, while questions and answers flew thick and fast.
There was so much to talk about and so many explanations to give that no one had made a move to enter the house when a buckboard driven by Jed Warren passed through the entrance in the stockade wall and rattled toward them.
“Hello! Who is that?” exclaimed Rob Ogden, in surprise.
Cranny Beaumont explained.