Thurston, from the very frankness of his verdant ignorance, had
won for himself the indulgent protectiveness of the whole
outfit; not a man but watched unobtrusively over his welfare--
and Bob MacGregor went farther and loved him whole-heartedly.
His voice, when he spoke, was unequivocally frightened.

Thurston sat up and wiped a handful of mud off his face; if it
had not been so dark Bob would have shouted at the spectacle.
"I'm 'kinda sorter shuck up like,"' he quoted ruefully. "And my
nose is skinned, thank you. Where's that devil of a horse?"

Bob stood over him and grinned. "My, I'm surprised at yuh, Bud!
What would your Sunday-school teacher say if she heard yuh?
Anyway, yuh ain't got any call to cuss Sunfish; he ain't to
blame. He's used to fellows that can ride."

"Shut up!" Thurston commanded inelegantly. "I'd like to see you
ride a horse when he's upside down!"

"Aw, come on," urged Bob, giving up the argument. "We'll be
plumb lost from the herd if we don't hustle."

They got into their saddles again and went on, riding by sound
and the rare glimpses the lightning gave them as it flared
through the storm away to the east.

"Wet?" Bob sung out sympathetically from the streaming shelter
of his slicker. Thurston, wriggling away from his soaked
clothing, grunted a sarcastic negative.