Jack Conroy watched the interesting spectacle without bubbling over; his enthusiasm had never been at a lower ebb; indeed, he began to heartily wish they had never heard of Wanatoma or his gold mine.
Before very long several cowboys cantered up to the gate, entering in single file. They were garbed in the usual fashion—colored shirts, leather chaps, and broad-brimmed sombreros. From the pommels of their saddles flapped rawhide lariats.
A touch of their quirts, or whips, sent their ponies bounding past; but, in an instant, they pulled sharply up, huge grins overspreading their deeply-bronzed faces.
"Wal, wal, strangers!" exclaimed one. "If this hyar ain't the biggest collection o' tenderfeet I've ever seen to onct!"
"Tenderfeet!" echoed Tom, indignantly.
"We may look like 'em, pard," laughed Bob, "but it ends there."
"Let's see if you can toss those rawhides; we're going to thin out the corral," grinned Dick. "Broncs come cheaper by the dozen, don't they, Mr. Irwin?"
The cattleman laughed.
"Get busy, boys," he said. "We have a big deal on hand; the Rambler Club of Wisconsin is to be supplied with horses."
A tremendous guffaw came from the riders. They listened to the ranchman's instructions, unslung their lariats, and then rode further into the corral.