But on this latter point there could have existed no doubt in the minds of any human onlookers. The clink-clink of hammers and drills, as the boys worked over their engine with old Mr. Joyce superintending, while Billy Barnes and Lathrop were actively employed loading the auto with a camping kit, gave the camp an appearance of great life and bustle. As for Bart Witherbee, he was at his favorite occupation of cooking. He had shot some young jack-rabbits a few hours before, and was now composing a stew.
“I didn’t know jack-rabbits were good to eat,” exclaimed Billy, when the miner had brought them into camp.
“Young ones is,” explained the plainsman, “but keep away from the elderly jack-rabbits.”
Suddenly Billy, who had looked from his task for the fiftieth time to remark that it was hot, noticed quite a cloud of dust swirling toward the adventurers across the prairie.
“Gee, here comes a whirlwind!” he exclaimed, pointing. The others looked, too.
Old Witherbee placed his hand over his eyebrows and peered long and earnestly at the rapidly approaching cloud of yellow dust.
“Somethin’ that I’m afeard is goin’ ter make it mighty uncomfortable for us,” exclaimed Witherbee, with a tone of anxiety in his voice.
“Mighty uncomfortable, how? Will it blow the auto away?” asked Billy.
“No, youngster, but it may blow us up; that cloud yonder is a bunch of skylarking cowboys, and they’re coming right for us.”
“Will they kill us?” asked Billy anxiously.
“No, I don’t think it’ll be as bad as that; though they git mighty onery sometimes. Don’t you boys give ’em no back talk, and maybe we’ll get out all right.”
The rapid advance of the approaching cowboys could now be heard. Their ponies’ hoofs could also be seen as they flashed in and out under the cloud of dust.
Suddenly there was a terrific volley of yells, and, as the cavalcade drew rein, the cloud rolled away and the boys found they were surrounded by forty or fifty wild-looking fellows, all yelling and shouting. Some of them had revolvers and were firing them in the air. The din was terrific.
“Throw up yer hands, yer Scanderhovian bunch of tenderfeet,” shouted the leader, a big man on a buckskin pony, whose legs were incased, despite the intense heat, in a huge, hairy pair of bearskin “chaps.”