"But I state right here and
now, if we do get a race there ain't a-goin' to be no chance of
our losin' for a second time."
And Stover went on his way to spread the tidings.
It was growing dark when the rattle of wheels outside the ranch-
house brought the occupants to the porch in time to see Nigger
Mike halt his buck-board and two figures prepare to descend.
"It's Mr. Speed!" cried Miss Blake. Then she uttered a scream as
the velvet darkness was rent by a dozen tongues of flame, while a
shrill yelping arose, as of an Apache war-party.
"It's the boys," said Jean. "What on earth has possessed them?"
But Stover had planned no ordinary reception, and the pandemonium
did not cease until the men had emptied their weapons.
Then Mr. J. Wallingford Speed came stumbling up the steps and
into the arms of his friends, the tails of his dust-coat
streaming.
"Really? This is more than I expected," he gasped; then turning,
doffed his straw hat to the half-revealed figures beyond the
light, and cried, gayly: "Thank you, gentlemen! Thank you for
missing me!"
"Yow--ee!" responded the cowboys.
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