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I don't wonder the Indians enjoy it so much." "Yes, the Indians enjoy it, and they'll enjoy getting our mustangs, too, if we give them the chance," had been Mr. Radbury's reply. But so far only one mustang had been taken, and that by a Comanche half-breed named Hank Stiger. Stiger had been accused of the crime by Mr.

"Of course not," answered Dave, perplexed. "Some one's been stringin' you, Hank," said Crawford, smiling. The teamster scratched his head. "No, sir. I was there when she left. About twelve o'clock last night, mebbe later." "But Sanders says he didn't send a note, and Joyce didn't come here. So you must 'a' missed connections somewhere." "Probably you saw her start for home," suggested Dave.

Old Hank Bunker done it once, and bragged about it; and in less than two years he got drunk and fell off of the shot-tower, and spread himself out so that he was just a kind of a layer, as you may say; and they slid him edgeways between two barn doors for a coffin, and buried him so, so they say, but I didn't see it. Pap told me. But anyway it all come of looking at the moon that way, like a fool.

Their trained eyes noticed at once that the strangers were of varying figure. The foremost, even at the distance, seemed to be gigantic, the second was very long and thin, and the third was normal. Smith and Karnes watched them a little while, and then Karnes spoke in words of true conviction. "It would be hard, Deaf, for even a bad eye to mistake the foremost." "Right you are, Hank.

"Down the road a piece driving like the Mischief," responded the rustic pointing back with his whip, "but you're wrong 'bout ther' bein' only two of them; that no-good beach-comber, Hank Handcraft, was in there with them." With a shouted word of thanks the car dashed forward once more.

He spoke with an accent that at once told Blake and Joe his nationality Spanish, either from Mexico or South America. "We're all right," put in Hank. "These young fellows saved us from going over into the gulch. It was a narrow squeak, though." "Ah!" The man uttered the exclamation, with a long sigh of satisfaction and relief.

When Hank had unsaddled the horses to rest their backs, and had eaten his lunch and had smoked a cigarette in the shade of a rock, his slow thoughts turned to the gossip of his little world. He told of the latest encounter with the crabbed fireman on Claremont, grinning appreciatively because the fireman's ill temper had been directed at a tourist who had gone up with Hank.

"Well, my man," said Hank with great assurance. "I must do as grandma says," and Charley threw the door wide open. At sight of Mrs. Peters' visitors, Hank gave a start of surprise, but quickly recovering himself, he bestowed upon each a gentlemanly greeting, and without futher ceremony, plunged into the business upon which he had come. "Well, Mrs. Peters, have you decided to accept my offer?"

Eagerly the boys and the cowboy scout peered ahead, straining their eyes for a glimpse of those whom they were pursuing. Then there came a bit of rough ground, and the pace was slower. Next followed a little rise, and, as this was topped, Blake, who had taken the lead for a short distance, uttered a cry and pointed forward with eager hand. "What is it?" cried Joe and Hank together.

Hank Graves, when he heard the story, with artistic touches from the cook, slapped his thigh and laughed one of his soundless chuckles. "The son-of-a-gun! He's the right stuff. Never whined, eh? I knew it. He's his dad over again, from the ground up." And loved him the better. Thurston tucked the bulb of his camera down beside the bellows and closed the box with a snap.