He opened his eyes. Dud’s voice came from a long way.
“Comin’ to all right. Didn’t I tell you this bird couldn’t drown?”
The mists cleared. Bob saw Dud’s cheerful smile, and back of it the faces of Harshaw, Hawks, and Big Bill.
“You got me out,” he murmured.
“Sure did, Bob. You’re some drookit, but I reckon we can dry you like we did the grub,” his riding mate said.
“Who got me?”
“Blame the boss.”
“We all took a hand, boy,” Harshaw explained. “It was quite some job. You were headed for Utah right swift. The boys rode in and claimed ownership. How you feelin’?”
“Fine,” Bob answered, and he tried to demonstrate by rising.
“Hold on. What’s yore rush?” Harshaw interrupted. “You’re right dizzy, I expect. A fellow can’t swallow the Blanco and feel like kickin’ a hole in the sky right away. Take yore time, boy.”