"Now, what's the use of chewin' the rag, boys," said the
untroubled Sam, stooping over to rub the toes of his shoes with a
red-and-yellow handkerchief. "Ranse took the order for some more
smokin' to San Antone with him Tuesday. Pancho rode Ranse's hoss
back yesterday; and Ranse is goin' to drive the wagon back himself.
There wa'n't much of a load—just some woolsacks and blankets and
nails and canned peaches and a few things we was out of. I look for
Ranse to roll in to-day sure. He's an early starter and a
hell-to-split driver, and he ought to be here not far from
sundown."
"What plugs is he drivin'?" asked Mustang Taylor, with a smack
of hope in his tones.
"The buckboard greys," said Sam.
"I'll wait a spell, then," said the wrangler. "Them plugs eat up
a trail like a road-ru
