"Twice!" he roared, kicking an inoffensive tomato can over the corral wall. "Twice! Mebby you'll try it again! All right; I'm willin'. I never heard of anybody around here thraskin' a twenty-three-year-old son, but as long as yo're bustin' records an' makin' th' Wigginses famous, I ought to do my share. Yo're bustin' ridin' records—I'm aimin' to bust th' hidin' records, if you don't smash th' sprintin' records, you grinnin' monkey!"
Pete went into the hotel, soon returning with the cards and a box; and for the rest of the morning played solitaire with the steadily rising sun beating on his back, and swarms of flies exploring his perspiring person.
The three riders were going on, hour after hour, their speed entirely controlled by what they knew of horse flesh, and when they espied the wagon Arch suggested another change of mounts, which was instantly overruled by Hopalong.
"Some of them Mesquite hombres will be rememberin' them cayuses," he said. "We're doin' good enough as we are."
When they reached the wagon and drew rein to breathe their mounts, Joe Reilly grinned a welcome. "Thought you was goin' to Gunsight!" he jeered.
Arch laughed triumphantly. "I've done been there, but got afraid you fellers might get lost. Meet Hopalong Cassidy an' Red Conners, friends of th' foreman."
"Why'n h—l didn't you bring my hoss with you, you locoed cow?" blazed Sam Gardner from the wagon seat. " You never got to Gunsight. You must 'a' hit a cushion an' bounced back."
"Forgot all about yore piebald," retorted Arch. "But
