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Reddy hovered near, listening, and Frank wondered why that wistful look had come into the eyes of the young cowboy. Possibly he had a home somewhere perhaps memories of a mother or father had crowded into his mind while the boys were talking of the sacred ties that bound them to Centerville. Frank had always believed there must be something of a history attached to Reddy's past.
But the cowboy turned out to be quite ignorant of the art of driving cattle, did more harm than good, and so annoyed me that I dismissed him to the rear to ride in the wagon if he so chose, and myself alone undertook to drive, or rather not so much to drive, that being hardly necessary, as to guide the herd on its course.
When first I saw Jim Airth, I thought him a cross between a cowboy and a guardsman; and I think so still. But what do you suppose he turns out to be, beside? An author! And, stranger still, he is writing an important book called Modern Warfare; its Methods and Requirements, in which he is explaining and working out many of Michael's ideas and experiments.
Probably some cowboy from the Circle Bar had been in the vicinity looking for Hazelton's cattle, had met Nellie, and had stopped at the cabin. He remembered to have heard Norton say that he was sending a man in that direction some time that day. That must be the explanation.
The blow went home. A film, like a veil drawn across the fiendish glare in them, spread over the eyes of Sabota, his grip on the throat of the cowboy relaxed and as a bull, struck by the hammer of the butcher, he dropped to the floor. The Ramblin' Kid crouched, panting, over the massive bulk. Sabota slowly opened his eyes and started to raise his battered head.
While the cowboy sat silent and thoughtful Jimmie Clayton was watching him, watching him with anxiety brilliant in his eyes, his tongue moistening, constantly moistening the lips which went dry and parched and cracked. Thornton knew, without lifting his eyes from the pool of shadow quivering at the base of the candle stub. "You ain't goin' back on me, Buck!"
The marshal had heard of Sabota's effort to have the young cowboy drugged the day of the race and also the immediate cause for the fight. "Oh, I don't know as I will," he said, "unless the Greek makes some charge or other. I don't imagine he'll do that" "I know blamed well he won't!" Old Heck interrupted. "But how about th' Ramblin' Kid putting his gun in your ribs resisting an officer and so on?"
The cowboy stared like a solemn owl, then very quietly went out. "Louise, put something over your shoulders. You'll catch cold. Here," said Pan and he picked a robe off the bed and wrapped it round her. "I didn't know you were so pretty. No wonder poor Blink worships you." She drew away from him and sat upon the bed, dark eyes questioning, suspicious. Yet she seemed fascinated.
"We can get some blankets and cookies and play cowboy." "How can you play cowboy with cookies and blankets?" "I'll show you," Teddy answered, as he went into the house to get the things he wanted. He soon came out with some old quilts and the cookies, which were in a paper bag.
It gave one a thrill of awe and wonder to see how these cowboy surgeons, with a stick that one would use to light a pipe and with the gaudy 'kerchiefs they had taken from their necks, were holding death at bay. The young officer was in great pain and tossing and raving wildly.
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