He was told yes, that for the present he was their coachman. Their horses
were tired and would follow, tied behind. "We're weary, too," said Drake,
getting in. "Take your legs out of my way or I'll kick off your shins.
Bolles, are you fixed warm and comfortable? Now start her up for Harper
ranch, Uncle."

"What are you proposing to do with me?" inquired Uncle Pasco.

"Not going to wring your neck, and that's enough for the present. Faster,
Uncle. Get a gait on. Bolles, here's Baby Bunting. Much obliged to you
for the loan of it, old man."

Uncle Pasco's eye fell on the 22-caliber pistol. "Did you hold me up with
that lemonade straw?" he asked, huskily.

"Yep," said Drake. "That's what."

"Oh, hell!" murmured Uncle Pasco. And for the first time he seemed
dispirited.

"Uncle, you're not making time," said Drake after a few miles. "I'll
thank you for the reins. Open your bandanna and get your concertina. Jerk
the bellows for us."

"That I'll not!" screamed Uncle Pasco.

"It's music or walk home," said the boy. "Take your choice."

Uncle Pasco took his choice, opening with the melody of "The Last Rose of
Summer." The sleigh whirled up the Owyhee by the winter willows, and the,