"What do you mean—stupid?"
"No—can't talk. At least he says he can't—I mean he wants us to understand that he can't." Bud corrected himself.
"I've got to be getting back," interrupted the deputy. "I suppose you men will settle here, now that you've got a cook and food. That is, if he'll cook for you and you want to take a chance that he won't poison you. Hey, you—cook for hombres?"
Again that vigorous nod.
"Seems agreeable enough. Now if you want anything, you know where to reach me. If it's at night, you'll find me down the street 'bout half a mile from the office, on the same side. Anyone will tell you where Joe Hawkins's place is. So long, boys. Again, good luck."
"Good-bye, Mr. Hawkins. We're much obliged to you for riding over with us."
"Glad to do it, Bud. Any time at all. Git along there, bronc. Adios!"
"So-long!"
"'Bye!"
"At last we're here," Nort declared. "No trace of anyone around; hey Bud? Wonder what became of them. I wouldn't mind seeing our little friend with the sawed-off shot-gun again."