Some one claimed to have seen
him vanish into one of these houses. Perhaps he might come back again.
It was a very tenuous hope, but it was the only one Johnnie had. He
clumped over the pavements till his feet ached in protest.
His patience was rewarded. On the second day, while he was gazing
blankly at the post a groom brought two horses to the curb in front of
the house opposite. One of the horses had a real cowboy's saddle.
Johnnie's eyes gleamed. This was like a breath of honest-to-God
Arizona. The door opened, and out of it came a man and a slim young
woman. Both of them were dressed for riding, she in the latest togs of
the town, he in a well-cut sack suit and high tan boots.
Johnnie threw up his hat and gave a yell. "You blamed old horn-toad!
Might 'a' knowed you was all right! Might 'a' knowed you wouldn't bite
off more'n you could chew! Oh, you Arizona!"
Clay gave one surprised look--and met him in the middle of the street.
The little cowpuncher did a war dance of joy while he clung to his
friend's hand. Tears brimmed into his faded eyes.
"Hi yi yi, doggone yore old hide, if it ain't you big as coffee, Clay.
Thinks I to myse'f, who is that pilgrim? And, by gum, it's old
hell-a-mile jes' a-hittin' his heels. Where you been at, you old
skeezicks?"
"How are you, Johnnie? And what are you doin' here?"
The Runt was the kind of person who tells how he is when any one asks
him. He had no imagination, so he stuck to the middle of the road for
fear he might get lost.
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