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Updated: May 6, 2025
If this Jerry Durand's trying to get you I'll be right there followin' yore dust, old scout." "There's more than one way to skin a cat. Mebbe the fellow means to strike at me through you or Kitty. I've a mind to put you both on a train for the B-in-a-Box Ranch." "You can put the li'l' girl on a train. You can't put me on none less'n you go too," answered his shadow stoutly.
One of Johnnie's vices according to the standard of the B-in-a-Box boys was that he was as neat as an old maid. He liked to hang around a mess-wagon and cook doughnuts and pies. His talent came in handy now, for Clay was no housekeeper. After the breakfast things were cleared away Johnnie fared forth to a certain house adjoining Riverside Drive, where he earned ten dollars a week as outdoors man.
He'll see that the matter is investigated for you." Johnnie was profuse, but somewhat incoherent in his thanks. "Much obliged to meet you, Mr. Postmaster. An' an' if you ever hit the trail for God's Country I'll sure I'll sure Us boys at the B-in-a-Box we'd be right glad to to meet up with you. Tha's right, as the old sayin' is. We sure would. Any ol' time."
But, so far as he could see, it had not achieved the results for which they had been hoping. Clay came home late and next morning was full of plans about leaving. He discussed the packing and train schedules and affairs at the B-in-a-Box. But of Beatrice Whitford he made not even a casual mention. "Two more days and we'll hit the trail for good old Tucson," he said cheerfully.
What can I do for you?" the man behind the big desk snapped. "I wantta see the postmaster." "What about?" "I got important business with him." "Who are you?" "Me, I'm Johnnie Green of the B-in-a-Box Ranch. I just drapped in from Arizona and I wantta see the postmaster." "Suppose you tell your troubles to me." Johnnie changed his weight to the other foot.
Johnnie was the lost dog of the B-in-a-Box ranch. It was his nature to follow somebody and lick his hand whenever it was permitted. The somebody he followed was Clay Lindsay. Johnnie was his slave, the echo of his opinions, the booster of his merits. He asked no greater happiness than to trail in the wake of his friend and get a kind word occasionally.
That was the reason why the Runt was doing his conscientious duty this fine morning. "Clay ain't one o' the common run of cowpunchers, ma'am. You bet you, by jollies, he ain't. Clay he owns a half-interest in the B-in-a-Box. O' course it ain't what he's got, but what he is that counts. He's the best darned pilgrim ever I did see."
Tha's what we ride the range for, so's not to lose 'em. We've traced a B-in-a-Box steer clear from Tucson to Denver, done it more'n onct or twice too. I notice you got a big bunch of man-punchers in uniform here. Ain't it their business to rustle up strays?" "The police," said the postmaster, amused. "That is part of their business. We'll pass the buck to them anyhow."
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