merely under better control. In Quong's case, however it might be with others of his countrymen, Sheridan was inclined to think that his will ruled.
"They nearly had you, Quong," he said as they neared the ranch.
The Chinaman looked at him.
"A clock does not strike until the hands reach the hour," he said.
That was all. No word of gratitude. Yet Sheridan felt the man was not ungrateful, in his own way. He caught up with Jackson.
"The Chink isn't handin' out any life-savin' medals," suggested Red.
"He'll probably make it up to us in cooking."
"I'm mighty glad we fixed that gate an' got up that signal code," said Jackson presently.
"I was thinking that," answered Sheridan. "And we've fixed Hollister. If he wants to lead that gang of his again they'll remember that he's foozled out the last time or two. And they'll always be looking close to see if he has any tar on his face," Jackson laughed.
"Yep. Sure will. For once the devil got painted as black as he is. Ye-ah, but I'm hungry. I c'u'd eat a horned-toad stew. How about eats, Quong?" he shouted back.
Quong cantered up.
"I was planning something for tomorrow's breakfast," he said. "I can make them tonight, if you wish."
"Them? What? Not them chicken crokwets you've bin talkin' about?"
