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"Never mind what you want to tell him. It'll keep, I reckon." At the door of the wooden hotel the cowpuncher swung from his horse. "You wait here a minute; I'll go fetch Jennie. She's prob'ly over to the dance. She'll fix you up with a room an' see that you get what you want." "But my bag?" "Yer what?" "My bag with all my things in it. I left it in the car." "Oh, yer war-bag!
Dragging his pony to a slithering halt, he leaped to the ground. "Get busy, Jackson. You ain't in a restaurant waiting for a meal," the little fat man reminded one of his tools irritably. Then, as he caught sight of Steve, "What the hell!" Yeager's left shot forward, all the weight and muscle of one hundred and seventy pounds of live cowpuncher behind it.
Harry Conroy took three long steps and laid a hand on Rowdy's shoulder a hand which Rowdy shook off as though it burned. "Say, stranger, are you too high-toned t' drink with a common cowpuncher?" he demanded sharply. Rowdy half-turned toward him. "No, sir. But I'll be mighty thirsty before I drink with you." His voice was even, but it cut.
The Happy Family would have been surprised to see him lay down kings and refuse to draw to them which he did once, with a gesture of disgust that flipped them face up so that all could see. He turned them over immediately, but the three had seen that this tall stranger, who had all the earmarks of a cowpuncher, would not draw to kings but must have something better before he would stay.
Gradually the meaning of the scene came home to her, and with it a realization that Steve Yeager was standing before her in the flesh. "You here!" she cried, scarce believing. "The cur lied," explained the cowpuncher. "It was a frame-up to get you in his power." "But your letter said " "Never mind about that now. Go down into the wash and bring up my horse. It needs water." She hesitated.
"Have you any objections to me camping with you here?" Not a cowpuncher within five hundred miles but would be glad of such redoubted company. They went back to Calder's horse. "We can start for my clearing," said Dan. "Bart'll bring the hoss. Fetch him in." The wolf took the dangling bridle reins and led on the cowpony.
"Because," explained the cowpuncher, "if I save my hoss's wind I may be saving my own life." Where the trail bent like an elbow and shot sheer down for the plain and Sour Creek, Riley Sinclair pointed his horse's nose up to the taller mountains, but Jig sat his horse in melancholy silence and looked mournfully up at his companion. "So long," said Sinclair cheerily.
Dave murmured over and over again, as he neared the frightened, tumultous mass of steers. "But don't you stumble with me, Crow!" For to stumble meant, very likely, the death of horse and rider. Cattle on the range are used to seeing mounted men in fact they seldom see them otherwise, and for a mounted cowpuncher it is perfectly safe to ride in front of even a wildly running mass of steers.
In the haggard, unshaven face of the cattleman Dave read the ghastly fear of his own soul. Doble was capable of terrible evil. His hatred, jealousy, and passion would work together to poison his mind. The corners of his brain had always been full of lust and obscenity. There was this difference between him and Shorty. The squat cowpuncher was a clean scoundrel.
As the ambulance drove away she waved cheerfully at him a gauntleted hand. The cowpuncher turned back to the arena. The megaphone man was announcing that the contest for the world's rough-riding championship would now be resumed. The less expert riders had been weeded out in the past two days. Only the champions of their respective sections were still in the running.
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