The meal proceeded amid a clatter of dishes and a buzz of conversation, abounding in rough jests and repartee.  The boys took their part in frank, good fellowship and were hearty in their praises of the hard riding they had seen that morning.  The ranchmen deprecated this as only “part of the day’s work,” but were pleased none the less at the sincere appreciation.

The meal, although, as Sandy had hinted, wanting in “frills,” was well cooked and abundant, and the food disappeared before those healthy appetites in a way that would have struck terror to the heart of a boarding-house keeper.  Before it was quite over, a belated cowboy galloped in from town.  He dismounted, threw his saddlebags on the bench, and, after sousing his heated face in the friendly basin, sat down to the table and proceeded to make amends for lost time.

“Bring a paper with you, Pete?” asked one of his friends as he pushed back his chair and lighted his pipe.

“Yes,” answered Pete between mouthfuls.  “Got a copy of the Helena ‘Record.’  You’ll find it in the saddlebag.”

The first speaker rose leisurely, hunted up the newspaper and seated himself on the step of the bunkhouse.  He looked over it carelessly for a moment and then a headline caught his attention.  He read on for a few lines and then called to his mates.

“Look here, fellows,” he exclaimed.  “I see that they’ve jugged ‘Red’ Thompson and ‘Shag’ Leary.  Caught them trying to hold up a train.”

There was a stir at this and they crowded round the speaker.

“Tell us about it,” they begged excitedly, for all of them knew of the evil fame and numerous exploits of these celebrated ruffians.

“I knew the sheriff would bag them fellers before long,” said one.

“Sheriff nuthin,” snorted Pete disgustedly.  “Them guys ain’t good fur nuthin but to wear tin stars and put up a bluff.  It was a bunch of tender-feet that nabbed ’em.”

“Have a heart,” said “Buck” Evans incredulously.  “Don’t fill us up with anything like that.”

“Them newspaper fellers is awful liars,” sagely commented “Chip” Bennett.

“But it gives the names,” persisted Pete.  “They wouldn’t go as far as that if it wasn’t so.  Let’s see,” he went on as his stubbed finger moved slowly over the lines.  “Here they are—­Wilson, Trent, Henderson—­say,” he exclaimed with a quick look at the boys, “ain’t them the handles you fellers carries?”

All eyes were fixed in astonishment on the visitors, who blushed as though they had been detected in a fault.  Their embarrassment carried conviction.  The paper was thrown aside and the men gathered about them in a chorus of eager questionings.  They made them tell in every detail the story of the fight, which the boys tried to minimize as much as possible.

“And yer never said a word about it,” commented Pete when they had extracted the last scrap of information.

“Why should we?” retorted Dick.  “As you said about the broncho busting, it was ‘all in the day’s work.’”