“Your father is a little late to-night, isn’t
he Jack?”
“Yes, Mrs. Watson, he should have been here
a half-hour ago, and he would, too, if he had ridden
Sunger instead of his own horse.”
“You think a lot of that pony of yours, don’t
you, Jack?” and a motherly-looking woman came
to the doorway of a small cottage and peered up the
mountain trail, which ran in front of the building.
Out on the trail itself stood a tall, bronzed lad,
who was, in fact, about seventeen years of age, but
whose robust frame and athletic build made him appear
several years older.
“Yes, Mrs. Watson,” the boy answered with
a smile, “I do think a lot of Sunger, and he’s
worth it, too.”
“Yes, I guess he is. And he can travel
swiftly, too. My goodness! The way you sometimes
clatter past my house makes me think you’ll sure
have an accident. Sometimes I’m so nervous
I can’t look at you.”
“Sunger is pretty sure-footed, even on worse
mountain trails than the one from Rainbow Ridge to
Golden Crossing,” answered Jack with a laugh,
that showed his white, even teeth, which formed a
strange contrast to his tanned face.
“Sunger,” repeated Mrs. Watson, musingly.
“What an odd name. I often wonder how you
came to call him that.”
“It isn’t his real name,” explained
Jack, as he gave another look up the trail over which
the rays of the declining sun were shining, and then
walked up to the porch, where he sat down. “The
pony was once owned by a Mexican miner, and he named
him something in Spanish which meant that the little
horse could go so fast that he dodged the sun.
Sundodger was what the name would be in English, I
suppose, and after I bought him that’s what
I called him.
“But Sundodger is too much of a mouthful when
one’s in a hurry,” and Jack laughed at
his idea, “so,” he went on, “I shortened
it to Sunger, which does just as well.”
“Yes, as long as he knows it,” agreed
Mrs. Watson. “But I guess, Jack, I had
better be going, I did think I’d wait until your
father came, and put the supper on for you both, but
he’s so late now—”
“Yes, Mrs. Watson, don’t wait,”
interrupted Jack. “I don’t know what
to make of dad’s being so late. But we’re
used to getting our own meals, so you needn’t
worry. We’ll get along all right.”
“Oh, I know you will. For two men—for
you are getting so big I shall have to call you a
man,” and she smiled at him. “For
two men you really get along very well indeed.”
“Yes, I’m getting to be something of a
cook myself,” admitted the lad. “But
I can’t quite equal your biscuits yet, and there’s
no use saying I can. However, you baked a pretty
good batch this afternoon, and dad sure will be pleased
when he sees ’em. I wish he’d come
while they’re hot though,” and once more
Jack Bailey arose and went out to peer up the trail.
He listened intently, but his sharp senses caught
no sound of clattering hoofs, nor sight of a horseman
coming down the slope, a good view of which could be
had from in front of the house that stood on a bend
in the road.
