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Page 4
"Did Mr. Lang say why he had not called here to see us?" asked
Grace.
"No, he didn't say much of anything. He is not of the saying kind.
I suppose he expected you to look him up. Besides, he is very busy
getting ready for you, I could see that. If you are ready we will
go over to the corral now."
"Where did you leave Hippy?" asked Miss Briggs.
"Talking horse with the owner of the ponies," Grace's husband
informed her, whereat both girls smiled understandingly, knowing
quite well that Hippy Wingate was posing as an expert on horses,
whereas about all the knowledge he possessed in that direction had
been gained from the ride over the Apache Trail during the
previous summer.
Tom led the two girls to the corral at the extreme edge of the
little western village. Anne, Emma and Nora already had found
their way there and were watching the wranglers, as the men who
catch up the ponies are called, roping broncos and leading them
out for the inspection of Lieutenant Wingate and the guide.
"My, but they are a lively bunch," exclaimed Miss Briggs.
The roped ponies were bucking and squealing and biting and
kicking. A suffocating gray cloud of alkali dust hung over the
corral, and, altogether, the scene was not only exciting, but it
stirred feelings of alarm in some of Grace Harlowe's Overland
Riders.
"Surely, Grace, you girls aren't going to ride those wild
animals!" protested Tom Gray.
"Judging from the performances I have just witnessed, I am
inclined to think we are not," replied Grace whimsically. "Which
is Mr. Lang?"
"The man with his hat off leading the pony from the corral."
Tom beckoned to the man who was to guide the Overlanders across
the desert, and, as soon as he had turned the protesting bronco
over to a cowboy, the guide responded to Tom Gray's summons.
"Lang, this is Mrs. Gray and Miss Briggs," said Tom by way of
introduction.
"Reckon I'm mighty glad to know you all," greeted the guide,
mopping the perspiration from his forehead with his sleeve.
Hi Lang interested Grace at once. Of medium height, thin-featured,
with a complexion that reminded her of wrinkled parchment, eyes
that, though intelligent and alert, frequently took on a dreamy,
far-away expression, Hiram Lang proved a new type of westerner to
Grace Harlowe.
"Got your telegram that you reckoned on starting to-day," he told
her.
"Yes. Of course we do not wish to hurry you, but we are eager to
get on our way. What about the supplies and equipment! Have you
ordered everything that I suggested?"
The guide nodded.
"The stuff already has gone on ahead in charge of Ping Wing--"
"Who?" laughed Elfreda Briggs.
"Ping Wing, a Chinaman, with four lazy burros. Good man. Can cook,
too. Been on the desert before. Lively as a cricket. Only trouble
with Ping is that he thinks he can sing. Ride and shoot?" he
demanded, abruptly changing the subject.
"I am not much of a rider, but manage to stick to the saddle most
of the time," answered Grace. "I shoot a little. We are all
novices, with the exception of Lieutenant Wingate who is an
excellent shot. The lieutenant was a fighting aviator in the war."
Hi nodded and stroked his chin.
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