“Lawd, no!” answered Old John.  “Why, I don’t hardly ride the same cayuse the second day, straight hand-running.  I tell you we ought to foller that other trail.  He’s just cute enough to play some trick on us.”

“Well, you better do that for us,” Charley replied, hoping against hope that the old man would chase off on the other and give his companions a rest.

“He ain’t got sand enough to tackle a thing like that single-handed,” laughed Jed White, winking to the others.

Old John wheeled.  “Ain’t, hey!  I am going to do that same thing an’ prove that you are a pack of fools.  I’m too old to be fooled by a common trick like that.  An’ I don’t need no help—­I’ll ketch him all by myself, an’ hang him, too!” And he wheeled to follow the other trail, angry and outraged.  “Young fools,” he muttered.  “Why, I was fighting all around these parts afore any of ’em knowed the difference between day an’ night!”

“Hard-headed old fool,” remarked Charley, frowning, as he led the way again.

“He’s gittin’ old an’ childish,” excused Stevenson.  “They say warn’t nobody in these parts could hold a candle to him in his prime.”

Hopalong muttered and stirred and opened his eyes to gaze blankly into those of one of the men who were tugging at his hands, and as he stared he started his stupefied brain sluggishly to work in an endeavor to explain the unusual experience.  There were five men around him and the two who hauled at his hands stepped back and kicked him.  A look of pained indignation slowly spread over his countenance as he realized beyond doubt that they were really kicking him, and with sturdy vigor.  He considered a moment and then decided that such treatment was most unwarranted and outrageous and, furthermore, that he must defend himself and chastise the perpetrators.

“Hey!” he snorted, “what do you reckon yo’re doing, anyhow?  If you want to do any kicking, why kick each other, an’ I’ll help you!  But I’ll lick the whole bunch of you if you don’t quite mauling me.  Ain’t you got no manners?  Don’t you know anything?  Come ‘round waking a feller up an’ man-handling—­”

“Get up!” snapped Stevenson, angrily.

“Why, ain’t I seen you before?  Somewhere?  Sometime?” queried Hopalong, his brow wrinkling from intense concentration of thought.  “I ain’t dreaming; I’ve seen a one-eyed coyote som’ers, lately, ain’t I?” he appealed, anxiously, to the others.

“Get up!” ordered Charley, shortly.

“An’ I’ve seen you, too.  Funny, all right.”

“You’ve seen me, all right,” retorted Stevenson.  “Get up, damn you!  Get up!”

“Why, I can’t—­my han’s are tied!” exclaimed Hopalong in great wonder, pausing in his exertions to cogitate deeply upon this most remarkable phenomenon.  “Tied up!  Now what the devil do you think—­”

“Use yore feet, you thief!” rejoined Stevenson roughly, stepping forward and delivering another kick.  “Use yore feet!” he reiterated.