"We can't take time to argue the point out with old King." "Sneak nothing," Frosty retorted grimly.

"You don't know King, if you're counting on that." I came near asking how he expected to get through, then; when I remembered my own spectacular flight, on a certain occasion, I felt that Frosty was calmly disowning our only hope.
We rode quietly into the mouth of King's Highway, our horses stepping softly in the deep sand of the trail as if they, too, realized the exigencies of the situation.

We crossed the little stream that is the first baby beginning of Honey Creek--which flows through our ranch--with scarce a splash to betray our passing, and stopped before the closed gate.
Frosty got down to swing it open, and his fingers touched a padlock doing business with bulldog pertinacity.

Clearly, King was minded to protect himself from unwelcome evening callers.
"We'll have to take down the wires," Frosty murmured, coming back to where I waited.

"Got your gun handy?
Yuh might need it before long." Frosty was not warlike by nature, and when he advised having a gun handy I knew the situation to be critical.
We took down a panel of fence without interruption or sign of life at the house, not more than fifty yards away; Frosty whispered that they were probably at supper, and that it was our best time.