Wally snorted disdain of any proceeding so spectacular, but he
was as he was made, and he could not keep his dare-devil spirit
quite in abeyance. He twitched his hat farther back on his head,
stuck his hands deep into his pockets, and walked deliberately
out into the open, his neck as stiff as a newly elected
politician on parade. He did not stop, as Jack had done, but he
facetiously whistled "Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are
marching," and he went at a pace which permitted him to finish
the tune before he reached the gate. He joined Jack in the
shade, and his face, when he looked back to the stable, was
anxious.
"It must be Grant he wants, all right," he muttered, resting one
hand on Jack's shoulder and speaking so he could not be overheard
from the house. "And I wish to the Lord he'd stay where he's
at."
But Good Indian was already two paces from the door, coming
steadily up the path, neither faster nor slower than usual, with
his eyes taking in every object within sight as he went, and his
thumb hooked inside his belt, near where his gun swung at his
hip.
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