"Wow! Wow!" yelled Johnny. "How's Tommy? How's the boy? Allemane left, you old bronc buster!"
"Quit it, you idjit!" bawled Loudon, the crushing of ribbon and necktie being imminent.
Ramsay stepped back and prodded Loudon's breast with an inquiring finger.
"Paddin'," he said, solemnly. "Tryin' to give yoreself a chest, ain't yuh, you old bean-pole? Ouch!"
For Loudon had dug a hard knuckle into his friend's left side, and it was Ramsay's turn to yell. From behind the counter Mike Flynn beamed upon them. He liked them well, these careless youngsters of the range, and their antics were a source of never-ending amusement.
Entered then a tall, lean man with black hair, and a face the good looks of which were somewhat marred by a thin-lipped mouth and sharp, sinister eyes. But for all that Sam Blakely, the manager of the 88 ranch, was a very handsome man. He nodded to the three, his lips parting over white teeth, and asked Mike Flynn for a rope.
"Here's yore cartridges, Tom," called Mike, and turned to the rear of the store.
Loudon picked up his box of cartridges, stuffing them into a pocket in his chaps.
"Let's irrigate," he said to Ramsay.
"In a minute," replied his friend. "I want some cartridges my own self."