Mason looked after him as long as he was in sight, and afterwards took
off his hat, and wiped beads of perspiration from his forehead. "Gosh!"
he whispered fervently. "That was nip and tuck--but I got him, thank the
Lord!" Whereupon he blew his nose violently, and went up to his supper
with his hands in his pockets and his humorous lips pursed into a
whistle.
Before long he was back, chuckling to himself as he bore down upon Ford
in the corral, where he was industriously rubbing Rambler's sprained
shoulder with liniment.
"The wife says you've got to come up to the house," he announced
gleefully. "You've gone and done the heroic again, and she wants to do
something to show her gratitude."
"You go back and tell your wife that I'm a bold, bad man and I won't
come." Ford, to prove his sincerity, sat down upon the stout manger
there, and crossed his legs with an air of finality.
"I did tell her," Mason confessed sheepishly. "She wanted to know who
you was, and I told her before I thought. And she wanted to know what
was the matter with your face, 'poor fellow,' and I told her that,
too--as near as I knew it.
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