Several minutes later, when the storm had subsided, the woeful crowd
enthusiastically urged Hopalong to the bar, where he "bought."
"Of all th' ornery outfits I ever saw-" began the man at the table,
grinning from ear to ear at the spectacle he had just witnessed.
"Why, hullo, Frenchy! Glad to see yu, yu old son-of-a-gun! What's
th' news from th' Hills?" Shouted Hopalong.
"Rather locoed, an' there's a locoed gang that's headin' that way.
Goin' up?" he asked.
"Shore, after round-up. Seen any punchers trailin' around loose?"
"Ya-as," drawled Frenchy, delving into the possibilities suddenly
opened to him and determining to utilize to the fullest extent the
opportunity that had come to him unsought. "There's nine over to Muddy
Wells that yu might git if yu wants them bad enough. They've got a
sombrero of mine," he added deprecatingly.
"Nine! Twisted Jerusalem, Buck! Nine whole cow-punchers a-pinin' for
work," he shouted, but then added thoughtfully, "Mebby they's
engaged," it being one of the courtesies of the land not to take
another man's help.
"Nope. They've stampeded for th' Hills an' left their boss all
alone," replied Frenchy, well knowing that such desertion would not,
in the minds of the Bar-20 men, add any merits to the case of the
distant outfit.
"Th' sons-of-guns," said Hopalong, "let's go an' get `em," he
suggested, turning to Buck, who nodded a smiling assent.
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