Hearing Jones heartily greeting some one, I turned in his direction, only to be distracted by another dog fight.
Don had tackled Moze for the seventh time.

Memory rankled in Don, and he needed a lot of whipping, some of which he was getting when I rescued him.
Next moment I was shaking hands with Frank and Jim, Jones's ranchmen.
At a glance I liked them both.

Frank was short and wiry, and had a big, ferocious mustache, the effect of which was softened by his kindly brown eyes.

Jim was tall, a little heavier; he had a careless, tidy look; his eyes were searching, and though he appeared a young man, his hair was white.
"I shore am glad to see you all," said Jim, in slow, soft, Southern accent.
"Get down, get down," was Frank's welcome--a typically Western one, for we had already gotten down; "an' come in.

You must be worked out.