“There’s your horse,” Rusty Brown called to Weary.  “Yours played out?”

“Not on your life,” Weary denied proudly.  “When yuh see Glory played out, you’ll see him with four feet in the air.”

“I seen him that way half an hour ago, all right,” bantered Bert Rogers.

Weary passed over the joke.  “Mamma!  Has it been that long?” he cried uneasily.  “I’ve got to be moving some.  Here, Dock, you put on that coat—­and never mind the label; it’s got to go—­and so have you.”

“Aw, he’s no good to yuh, Weary,” they protested.  “He’s too drunk to tell chloroform from dried apricots.”

“That’ll be all right,” Weary assured them confidently.  “I guess he’ll be some sober by the time we hit camp.  I went and dug up his dope-box, so he can get right to work when he arrives.  Send him out here.”

“Say, he can’t never top off Powderface, Weary.  I thought yuh was going to ride him yourself.  It’s plumb wicked to put that old centurion on him.  He wouldn’t be able to stay with him a mile.”

“That’s a heap farther than he could get with Glory,” said Weary, unmoved.  “Yuh don’t seem to realize that Patsy’s just next thing to a dead man, and Dock has got the name of what’ll cure him sloshing around amongst all that whiskey in his head.  I can’t wait for him to sober up—­I’m just plumb obliged to take him along, jag and all.  Come on, Dock; this is a lovely evening for a ride.”

Dock objected emphatically with head, arms, legs and much mixed dialect.  But Weary climbed down and, with the help of Bert Rogers, carried him bodily and lifted him into the saddle.  When the pinto began to offer some objections, strong hands seized his bridle and held him angrily submissive.

“He’ll tumble off, sure as yuh live,” predicted Bert; but Weary never did things by halves; he shook his head and untied his coiled rope.

“By the Lord!  I hate to see a man ride into town and pack off the only heirloom we got,” complained Rusty Brown.  “Dock’s been handed down from generation to Genesis, and there ain’t hardly a scratch on him.  If yuh don’t bring him back in good order Weary Davidson, there’ll be things doing.”

Weary looked up from taking the last half-hitch around the saddle horn.  “Yuh needn’t worry,” he said.  “This medical monstrosity is more valuable to me than he is to you, right now.  I’ll handle him careful.”

“Das wass de mean treeck!” cried Dock, for all the world like a parrot.

“It sure is, old boy,” assented Weary cheerfully, and tied the pinto’s bridle-reins into a hard knot at the end.  With the reins in his hand he mounted Glory.  “Your pinto’ll lead, won’t he?” he asked Rusty then.  It was like Weary to take a thing for granted first, and ask questions about it afterward.

“Maybe he will—­he never did, so far,” grinned Rusty.  “It’s plumb insulting to a self-respecting cow-pony to make a pack-horse out uh him.  I wouldn’t be none surprised if yuh heard his views on the subjects before yuh git there.”