The Boy Ranchers Among the Indians | Page 8

the fact that
when a stranger is found among other men's horses that stranger is due
to make an explanation."
"My boy, you are right!" laughed the ragged man. "Absolutely and
tetotally right! Of course you recognize the fact that I am no longer
'among' your horses. I was, but I am not. I came out, so to speak," and
he indicated, by a tumbling motion of his hands, that he had leaped the
fence to get away from the half wild ponies.
"That's all right," spoke Bud, his voice still stern. His cousins were
leaving this matter entirely to him. "That's all right. But you were
among them, and it may be more to our good luck than our good
management that you aren't astride one of them now, and riding off.
What's your name and where are you from?"
These were vital, western questions.
"You are right in your surmise," said the man, limping toward the boys,
and still smiling, which occupation he had not left off since arising to

his feet. "If luck had been with me I would have ridden on one of your
horses. Not off--far be it from me to do that. But I would have ridden to
the nearest ranch, tried to get work and so have paid for the use of the
animal.
"However, fate had other things in store for me. I never saw such wild
animals! They came at me like so many fiends, and after trying in vain
to quiet them, and I may say I have some skill with wild beasts, I
thought discretion the better part of foolhardiness, and--made for the
fence!"
He chuckled at the recollection.
"Then you weren't going to steal a horse?" asked Nort.
"Far from it, kind sir," and the man bowed with just the slightest
suggestion of mockery, at which Bud frowned. "I am a lone traveler,
and I sought help on my way--help for which I would have paid in
work."
"Who are you?" snapped out Bud.
"I have told you my name," said the stranger, in gentle contrast to Bud's
harsh tone. "Rolling Stone, at your service," and he bowed again, this
time with no trace of mockery.
"Rolling Stone!" ejaculated Nort.
"That isn't a name," complained Bud, but his voice had lost some of its
stern quality, and his lips trembled on the verge of a smile.
"I realize that it is more a state of being, or a quality," the man admitted.
"But it happens to be a sort of paraphrase of my title. I am Roland
Stone, at your service, but my taste, inclination and the action of
disheartened friends has fastened the other appellation on me. Rolling
Stone I am by name and by nature."
He said it in a way that left little room for doubt, and the boy ranchers

seemed to realize this. They could understand how such a character
could easily change Roland into "Rolling," if such was his nature. And
"Stone" was a common enough name.
"All right, Mr. Rolling Stone," said Bud. "If that's your choice it still
leaves the other question unanswered. Where are you from?"
"Everywhere and anywhere, which is to say nowhere," came the reply.
"You need only to look at me to tell what I am--a happy-go-lucky
individual, a tramp, a hobo, and yet I am willing to work when the
spirit is on me. I never stole a dollar or a dollar's worth in all my life. I
have harmed neither man, woman or child. I am my own worst enemy,
and I am--frankly--hungry! If you will give me food I'll pay for it in
work to the best of my ability--"
"You said you had some skill with wild animals," interrupted Bud. "Do
you mean--"
"I don't mean horses, if you will excuse the interruption," the man said.
"There is my one failing. I used to be with a circus, and the lion and I
were good friends. Perhaps some taint of the wild beast odor clings to
me, which causes horses to rear up and tear. Or else--"
"That didn't cause these ponies to act that way," laughed Bud, who,
with his cousins, was rapidly forming a liking for the stranger. "They're
half wild themselves. Just in off the range, and they haven't been
broken yet. I doubt if Yellin' Kid would tackle one. It isn't anything to
your discredit that you got out in a hurry. But you say you're hungry?"
That was an appeal which never went unheeded in the west.
"Mightily hungry, fair sir!" and, though Rolling Stone smiled, there
was an appealing note in his voice. "The last meal I had for nothing
was given me by Hank Fowler."
"Hank Fowler!" cried Bud.
"The sheriff?" added Nort.

"Who sent on to Mr. Merkel