comes plus or minus at any old time and without rhyme or reason. The package has never been investigated, so far as I know, when it weighed more than six pounds. I wish I could have persuaded Grandy to turn it over to me. Possibly I can get a chance at it when the man conies in to take it out to the ranch."
When he had finished his breakfast, Ruthven went out on the hotel porch and seated himself in a comfortable chair. Weasel Morrison was much in his mind, and likewise Lois McKenzie. These two presented a baffling problem, and the more his mind dwelt upon their ride together from Williamsburg to Burt City the more bewildered he became.
He was still struggling in the mental mire when a mountain wagon, drawn by two fiery, half-tamed bronchos, came racing down the street. There was only one man in the wagon—a cowboy by the look of him—and he had the lines wrapped around his hands and was sawing them back and forth.
One horse appeared to be trying desperately to leap over the other. The driver was shouting all the time, and what he said was very expressive of the state of his feelings. He managed to guide the team to the hitching pole in front of Grandy's establishment. There one broncho tried to go into the store while its mate made an unsuccessful attempt to climb a telegraph pole.
"You, Ginger!" whooped the driver. "Say, I got a blame' good notion to skin ye alive. Pete, you mouse-colored, no-account son o' the Ole Nick, if I had you to the ranch I'd stand you on your bloomin' head. Whoa now, consarn ye!"
He fell out of the wagon, gathered himself up, and finally managed to get the team hitched. Then he got on the platform, pulled off his wide-brimmed hat, and mopped his brow with a handkerchief.
"Those bronks are kind of festive, eh, William?" remarked Grandy, appearing in the store door.
"You might call it that, Grandy," was the aggrieved reply, "and you might call it pure cussedness. Them two was only broke to saddle last fall, and to harness this spring. Not before this morning was they ever hitched together. They're real unsociable, seems like."
"How's Nate Wylie?"
"Sick abed. I had to come to town in his place. Old man's feet are botherin' him a heap, and he says by now you ort to have a pair o' boots he ordered from Burt City more'n a' month ago. He can't wear nothin' but a certain kind o' footgear, and the last pair he got from Burt City would be all right yet a while if some thievin' four-footed critter hadn't got away with one of 'em. I allow it's Sam Haynes' coyote dog, but we can't prove it on the animile. With only half the old pair left, Barton's got to have the new ones. Have they come?"
"There's a package here, and I allow it's just about the size to hold a pair of boots. But it's awful heavy, William."
"Light or heavy, I got to put right back with that package. Put a bag o' flour, a side o' bacon, and a case o' termaters in the wagon. I'll get the package and what mail there is, and hustle to run out the return trail."
"Why don't you drive a team that's got some respect for you, William?"
"Well, the old man wants Ginger and Pete to git used to each other, and so he put it up to me to drive 'em to town. I'll bet they'll know somebody's behind 'em before we get back to the Musselshell! I've stood about all them didoes I'm goin' to."
William went into the store, and Grandy followed him. "Here's the man I'm waiting for," thought Ruthven, "and I'll ride with him out to the ranch."
