The afternoon had almost half passed when Frank's sharp eyes discovered
a single horseman riding on a course that would likely bring him across
their trail soon.
"Seems to me there's something familiar about that fellow's way of
sitting in the saddle," he observed; and then, reaching for the field
glasses which he carried swung in a case over his shoulder, he quickly
adjusted them to his eyes. "Thought so," he muttered, and Bob could
see him smile as he said it.
"Recognize the rider, then? Don't tell me now that it's Peg, or one of
those slippery cowboy friends he has trailing after him," remarked Bob.
"Here, take the glasses, and see what you think," replied the other,
laughingly.
No sooner had the Kentucky lad taken a single good look than he called
out:
"Who but old Hank Coombs, the veteran cow puncher of the Southwest! I
suppose your father has sent him on an errand, Frank."
"Just as likely as not, because he trusts old Hank more than any man on
the entire ranch. You can see he's headed in a line that will fetch up
at the Circle Ranch by midnight, if he keeps galloping on. Look there,
he sees us, and is waving his arm. Yes, he's changed his course so as
to meet us, Bob."
"But if we needed the glass to find out who he was, how does it come
that an old man like Hank could tell that we were friends, at such a
distance?" asked the young tenderfoot, always eager to learn.
"Because his eyes are as good as ever they were.
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