but my money's on The Pilot, you bet!" Bill was more cautious and preferred to wait developments. And developments were rapid.
The Hill brothers' meet was unusually successful from a social point of view. Several Permits had been requisitioned, and whisky and beer abounded. Races all day and poker all night and drinks of various brews both day and night, with varying impromptu diversions—such as shooting the horns off wandering steers—were the social amenities indulged in by the noble company. On Monday evening I rode out to the ranch, urged by Moore, who was anxious that someone should look after Bruce.
"I don't belong to them," he said, "you do. They won't resent your coming."
Nor did they. They were sitting at tea, and welcomed me with a shout
"Hello, old domine!" yelled Bruce, "where's your preacher friend?"
"Where you ought to be, if you could get there—at home," I replied, nettled at his insolent tone.
"Strike one!" called out Hi, enthusiastically, not approving Bruce's attitude toward his friend, The Pilot.
