He understood now the true reason for Jack Harpe’s lack of activity.  This purchasing by Lanpher and Tweezy of the Dale mortgage was the eminently safe and lawful plan of Jakey Pooley.  In his letter Fat Jakey had written that it would take longer.  And wasn’t it taking longer?  It was.  Racey thought he saw the plan in its entirety, and was in a boil accordingly.  He would have been in considerably more of a boil had he been blessed with the ability to read the future.

When he rode in among the buildings of the 88 ranch his eyes were gratified by the sight of freckle-faced Bill Allen straddling a cracker-box in front of the bunkhouse and having his hair cut by Rod Rockwell.

“That’s right,” Bill Allen was complaining, “whynell don’t you cut off the whole ear while yo’re about it?”

“Aw, shut up,” said Rod Rockwell, “it was only the tip, and I didn’t go to cut it, anyway.”

“I don’t giveadamn whether you went to cut it or not, you cut it!  I can feel the blood running down the back of my neck.”

“That’s only sweat, you bellerin’ calf!  Hold still, can’t you?  Djuh want me to hurt you?”

“You done have already,” snarled Bill Allen, fidgeting on his cracker-box.  “You wait till I cut yore hair after.  I’ll fix you.  I’ll scalp you, you pot-walloper.”

“That’s right, Bill,” said Racey, checking his horse beside the quarrelling pair.  “Talk to him.  Givem hell.”

“’Lo, Racey,” grinned the two youngsters in unison.

“Where did you rustle this hoss?” asked Bill Allen.

“Nemmine where,” smiled Racey, for both Bill and Rod had been his friends in his 88 days and could therefore insult him with impunity.  “I wouldn’t wanna put li’l boys in the way of temptation.  Does the cook still spank him regular, Rod?”

“Stab his hoss with the scissors, Rod,” begged Bill Allen.  “Let’s see what for a rider Mr. Dawson is.”

Racey pressed his off rein against his horse’s neck.  The animal whirled on a nickel, and reared, hard held, after the first plunge.  The flying pebbles plentifully showered the two punchers.  Bill Allen swore heartily, for one of the pebbles had clipped his damaged ear.

“You see what a good rider I am,” Racey said, sweetly.  “Can’t feaze me, nohow.  Sit still, Bill, and lemme try can I jump the li’l hoss over you.  Rod, do you mind movin’ back a yard?”

“No,” said Bill Allen, decidedly, and picked up his cracker-box and retreated backward to the bunkhouse door.  “No, you don’t play any such tricks as that on me.  He’d just as soon try it as not, the idjit,” he added over his shoulder to Tile Stanton who was peering out to see what all the racket was about.

“Let him try it,” Tile Stanton advised promptly.  “If the cayuse does happen to hit yore head, it won’t hurt yore thick skull.  G’on, Bill, be a sport.”

“Be a sport yoreself,” returned Bill Allen, skipping into the bunkhouse.  “Where’s the other scissors?  I’ll finish this job myself.”