"Oh! It's not you I want!" he yelled. "It's that fool dog! Come here, sir!"
But the dog obeyed no better than before.
A moment the ranchman glared at it, his face terrible in its anger, then dropped his hand to his hip and drew forth a revolver.
Divining his intention, Bob leaped in front of the dog, exclaiming:
"Don't shoot, sir! The dog has done nothing!"
"Done nothing, eh? I suppose you call making friends with a stranger nothing. Stand aside!"
But Bob did not move.
"Just because a dog makes friends with me is no reason for shooting him," he retorted.
A moment the man glowered sullenly from the dog to the boy, then, attracted by something about the latter, came closer and peered eagerly into Bob's face.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
"Bob Nichols."
"Nichols, eh? Then I must have been mistaken," he added in a voice too low for the boy to hear, and a look of disappointment settled on his face as he continued aloud: "Well, what do you want?"
"You are Mr. Ford, I presume?" asked Bob.
"I am; John Ford, owing no man a cent and afraid of nothing, or no one on earth."
Smiling at this unusual introduction, Bob said:
