With all the skill and celerity which long experience had given them, the Rangers² began their preparations for the long hours before them. The boys, too, got busy. Immediately after attending to the wants of their mustangs, the three, using the leather buckets they always carried, brought water from the river. Then fuel was gathered and a fire started.

 

It was Dave Brandon’s turn to cook for his companions. Though very often slow in his movements, the stout, round-faced historian always managed to cast aside this tendency when anything called for action. Now at work among the pots and pans he stepped about with a lightness and agility³ which scarcely seemed compatible with his avoirdupois.

 

“You’re a wonder, Dave,” declared Don.

 

“Thanks,” laughed the Rambler. “I hope you’ll think my flapjacks are.”

 

[130]“What! did I hear aright?” cried Don. “Flapjacks!”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Oh, joy!” gurgled Sam.

 

“And do make at least two or three pailfuls,” pleaded Don.

 

The fire crackling noisily sent columns of bluish smoke rising high above the hills. As the shadows deepened and stars began to twinkle in the sky, the dancing light crept farther and farther out until objects in a vast circle were lifted from the surrounding gloom.

 

Dave with his frying-pan was the object of universal attention. The lad had learned the art of making flapjacks from the Wyoming cowboys. With a skill almost equal to theirs he cooked panful after panful, while enthusiastic comments were continually heard. Carl Alvin, acting⁴ for the Rangers, joined in.

 

“I’ll give you fair warning, boys,” he grinned. “We’re going to be flapjack rustlers to-night; eh, Chaney?”

 

“Believe me, that’s true,” responded the Ranger¹.

 

Men and boys certainly had a great meal that night; at least, every one said so; and[131] furthermore all agreed, too, that the finest dinner in the finest restaurant on earth could never have tasted any better.

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