that he, Red, was a worm-eaten prune and that for half a wink he,
Johnny, would prove it. Red grabbed him by the seat of his corduroys
and the collar of his shirt and helped him outside, where they
strolled about, taking pot shots at whatever their fancy suggested.

Down the street in a cloud of dust rumbled the Las Cruces-El Paso
stage and the two punchers went up to meet it. Raw furrows showed in
the woodwork, one mule was missing and the driver and guard wore fresh
bandages. A tired tenderfoot leaped out with a sigh of relief and
hunted for his baggage, which he found to be generously perforated.
Swearing at the God-forsaken land where a man had to fight highwaymen
and Indians inside of half a day he grumblingly lugged his valise
toward a forbidding-looking shack which was called a hotel.

The driver released his teams and then turned to Red. "Hullo, old
hoss, how's th' gang?" he asked genially. "We've had a heck of a time
this yere trip," he went on without waiting for Red to reply. "Five
miles out of Las Cruces we stood off a son-of-a-gun that wanted th'
dude's wealth. Then just this side of the San Andre foothills we runs
into a bunch of young bucks who turned us off this yere way an' gave
us a runnin' fight purty near all th' way. I'm a whole lot farther
from Paso now than I was when I started, an seem as I lost a jack I'll
be some time gittin' there. Yu don't happen to sabe a jack I can
borrow, do yu?"

"I don't know about no jack, but I'll rope yu a bronch," offered
Red, winking at Johnny.

"I'll pull her myself before I'll put dynamite in di' traces,"
replied the driver. "Yu fellers might amble back a ways with me-them