"He couldn't, you mean," jabbed Jim. "He's so plumb tender that it would strain his back to carry it. Why, he has to sit down and rest if more'n two flies get on the same spot at once."

"He can't wag his tail more'n three times in an hour," added Bud, "and when he scratches hisself he has to rest for the remainder of the day."

Humble turned to The Orphan in an appealing way: "Did you ever see so many d----d fools all at once?" he beseeched.

The Orphan placed his finger to his chin and thought for fully half a minute before replying: "I was just figuring," he explained in apology for his abstraction. Then his face brightened: "You can tie him up in a blanket--that's the best way. Yes, sir, tie him up in a blanket and sling him at the pommel. We'll take turns carrying him."

"Purple h--l!" yelled Humble. "You're another! The whole crowd are a lot of ----!"

"Sing it, Humble," suggested Tad, laughing. "Sing it!"

"Whistle some of it, and send the rest by mail," a.s.sisted Jack Lawson.

"Seen th' dlog?" came a bland, monotonous voice from the doorway, where Lee Lung stood holding a chunk of beef in one hand, while his other hand was hidden behind his back. Over his left shoulder projected half a foot of club, which he thought concealed. "Seen th' dlog?" he repeated, smiling.

"Miss Mirandy and holy h.e.l.l!" shouted Humble, leaping forward at sight of the club. There was a swish! and Humble rebounded from the door, at which he stared. From the rear of the house came more monotonous words: "Nice dlog-gie. Pletty Lightling. Here come. Gette glub," and Humble galloped around the corner of the house, swearing at every jump.

When the laughter had died down Blake smiled grimly: "Some day Lee _will_ get that dog, and when he does he'll get him good and hard. Then we'll have to get another cook. I've told him fifty times if I've told him once not to let it go past a joke, but it's no use."

"He won't hurt the cur, he's only stringing Humble," said Bud. "n.o.body would hurt a dog that minded his own business."

"If anybody hit a dog of mine for no cause, he wouldn't do it again unless he got me first," quietly remarked The Orphan.

Jim hastily pointed to the corner of the house where a club projected into sight: "There's Lee now!" he whispered hurriedly. "He's laying for him!"

There was a sudden spurt of flame and smoke and the club flew several yards, struck by three bullets. Humble hopped around the corner holding his hand, his words too profane for repet.i.tion.

Smoke filtered from The Orphan's holster and eyes opened wide in surprise at the wonderful quickness of his gunplay, for no one had seen it. All there was was smoke.

"Good G.o.d!" breathed Blake, staring at the marksman, who had stepped forward and was explaining to Humble. "It's a good thing Shields was square!" he muttered.

"Did you see that?" asked Bud of Jim in whispered awe. "And I thought _I_ was some beans with a six-shooter!"

"No, but I heard it--was they one or six?" replied Jim.

"I didn't know it was you, Humble," explained The Orphan. "I thought it was the c.h.i.n.k laying for the dog."

"---- ----! Good for you!" cried Humble in sudden friendliness. "You're all right, Orphant, but will you be sure next time? That stung like blazes," he said as he held out his hand. "I can always tell a white man by the way he treats a dog. If all men were as good as dogs this world would be a blamed sight nicer place to live in, and don't you forget it."

"Still going to take Lightning with you, Humble?" asked Bud.

"No, I ain't going to take Lightning with me!" snapped Humble. "I'm going to leave him right here on the ranch," here his voice arose to a roar, "and if any sing-song, rope-haired, animated hash-wrastler gets gay while I'm gone, I'll send him to his heathen h.e.l.l!"

"Come on, boys," said Blake, snapping his watch shut. "Time to get going."

"Glory be!" exulted Silent, executing a few fancy steps toward the corral, his companions close behind, with the exception of The Orphan, who had gone into the bunk house for a minute.

As they whooped their way toward the town Blake noticed that a gold pin glittered at the knot of the new recruit's neck-kerchief, and he chuckled when he recalled the warning he had given to the sheriff. He shrewdly guessed that the apricot pie and the rest of the feast were quite subordinated by The Orphan to the girl who had given him the pin.

Bud suddenly turned in his saddle and pointed to a jackrabbit which bounded away across the plain like an animated shadow.

"Now, if Humble's bloodhound was only here," he said, "we would rope that jack and make the cur fight it. It would be a fine fight, all right," he laughed.

"You go to the devil," grunted Humble, and he started ahead at full speed.

"Come on!" he cried. "Come on, you snails!" and a race was on.

The citizens of Ford's Station saw a low-hanging cloud of dust which rolled rapidly up from the west and soon a hard-riding crowd of cowboys, in gala attire, galloped down the main street of the town. They slowed to a canter and rode abreast in a single line, the arms of each man over the shoulders of his nearest companions, and all sang at the top of their lungs. On the right end rode Blake, and on the left was The Orphan. Bill Howland ran out into the street and spotted his new friend immediately and swung his hat and cheered for the man who had helped him out of two bad holes. The Orphan broke from the line and shook hands with the driver, his face wreathed by a grin.

"You old son-of-a-gun!" cried Bill, delighted at the familiarity from so noted a person as the former outlaw. "How are you, hey?"

The line cried warm greeting as it swung around to shake his hand, and the driver's chest took on several inches of girth.

"Hullo, Bill!" cried Bud with a laugh. "Seen your old friend Tex lately?"

"Yes, I did," replied Bill. "I saw him out on Thirty-Mile Stretch, but he didn't do nothing but swear. He didn't want no more run-ins with me, all right, and, besides, my rifle was across my knees. He said as how he was going to come back some day and start things moving about this old town, and I told him to begin with the Star C when he did."

He looked across the street and waved his hand at a group of his friends who were looking on. "Come on over, fellows," he cried, and when they had done so he turned and introduced The Orphan to them.

"This ugly cuss here is Charley Winter; this slab-sided curiosity is Tommy Larkin, and here is his brother Al; Chet Dare, Duke Irwin, Frank Hicks, Hoke Jones, Gus Shaw and Roy Purvis. All good fellows, every one of them, and all friends of the sheriff. Here comes Jed Carr, the only man in the whole town who ain't afraid of me since I licked them punchers in the defile. Hullo, Jed! Shake hands with the man who played h--l with the Cross Bar-8 and the Apaches."

"Glad to meet you, Orphan," remarked Jed as he shook hands. "Punching for the Star C, eh? Good crowd, most of them, as they run, though Humble ain't very much."

"He ain't, ain't he?" grinned that puncher. "You're some sore about that day when I cleaned up all your cush at poker, ain't you? Ain't had time to get over it, have you? Want to borrow some?"

"You want to look out for Humble, Jed," bantered Bud. "He's taken a lesson at poker from our cook since he played you. Didn't you, Easy?" he asked Humble.

The roar of laughter which followed Bud's words forced Humble to stand treat: "Come on over and have something with the only man in the crowd that's got any money," he said.

When they had lined up against the bar jokes began to fly thick and fast and The Orphan felt a peculiar elation steal over him as he slowly puffed at his cigar. Suddenly the door flew open and Bill's gla.s.s dropped from his hand.

"Bucknell, by G.o.d! And as drunk as a fool!" he exclaimed.

The puncher whom The Orphan had tied up above the defile leaned against the door frame and his gun wavered from point to point unsteadily as he tried to peer into the dim interior of the room, his face leering as he sought, with a courage born of drink, for the man who had made a fool of him.

A bottle crashed against the wall at his side, and as he lurched forward, glancing at the broken gla.s.s, a figure leaped to meet him and with agile strength grasped his right wrist, wheeled and got his shoulder under Bucknell's armpit, took two short steps and straightened up with a jerk. The intruder left the floor and flew headforemost through the air, crashing against the rear wall, where he fell to the floor and lay quiet. The Orphan, having foresworn unnecessary gunplay, and always scorning to shoot a drunken man, had executed a clever, quick flying-mare.

As the sheriff stepped into the room Blake ran forward and lifted Bucknell to his feet, supporting him until he could stand alone. The puncher was greatly sobered by the shock and blinked confusedly about him. The Orphan was smoking nonchalantly at the bar and Bill had just given the sheriff the victim's gun.

"What's the matter?" asked Bucknell, rubbing his forehead, which was cut and bruised.

"Nothing's the matter, yet," answered Shields shortly. "But there would have been if you hadn't been too drunk to know what you was doing. I saw you and tried to get here first, but it's all right now. Take your gun and get out. Here," he exclaimed, "you promise me to behave yourself and you can go back to Sneed, for he needs you. Otherwise, it's out of the country after Tex for you. Is it a go?"

"What was that, and who done it?" asked Bucknell, clinging to the bar.

"What was it?" he repeated.

"That was me trying to throw you through the wall," said the sheriff, wishing to give Bucknell no greater cause for animosity against The Orphan, and for the peace of the community; and also because he wished to help The Orphan to refrain from using his gun in the future. "And I'd 'a' done it, too, only my hand was sweaty. Will you do what I said?" he asked.