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It seemed that he was engaging in battle with some airy figure before him. That was enough of a hint to make Marianne look again towards the pair directly below her; the hat of the gaudy cowpuncher lay in the dust where it had evidently been knocked by the first poorly aimed blow of him of the moustaches, and the owner of the hat danced away at a little distance.
She paused at this point to wonder why a stray cowpuncher should make her flush but immediately decided that he had nothing to do with it; it was the purchase of the mares that kept alive the little thrill of happiness.
"An' you'll learn a lot more 'fore you hit the N. P., or my name ain't Jennie Dodds. If you're bound to go you can take my outfit. I guess Tex'll see that my horse comes back, anyhow." The cowpuncher grinned: "Thanks, Jennie, I'm right proud to know you think I wouldn't steal your horse." Once more he turned to the girl. "When the half-breed comes for you, you go with him.
"In the first place, d'you know why she left you?" An anguish came across Cartwright's face. It taught Sinclair at least one thing that the man loved her. "You're the reason maybe." "Me? I never seen her till two days ago. That's a tolerable ugly thing to say, Cartwright!" "Well, I got tolerable ugly reasons for saying it," answered the other. The cowpuncher sighed. "I follow the way you drift.
An' while you're a-doin' it, bein' as you're a pretty good Greaser, I'll just take a drink to you " "Greasaire, non! Me, A'm hate de damn Greasaire!" The cowpuncher paused with the bottle half way to his lips and scrutinized the other: "I thought you was a little off colour an' talked kind of funny. What be you?" "Me, A'm Blood breed. Ma fader she French. Ma moder she Blood Injun.
Little beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. The lean muscles of his cheeks stood out like ropes. But no sound escaped his lips. "You are a brave man," said the doctor when he had finished. "I wish you good fortune, sir." A faint smile rested in the eyes of the cowpuncher. "I'm right likely to have it, don't you think?" he asked ironically.
A slight lifting of Sinclair's heavy brows showed that he had heard, but he did not raise his head. "Don't do what?" "Don't try to kill that second man. Don't do it!" Gaspar was rewarded with a sneer. "Why not?" The schoolteacher was desperately eager. His glance roved from the set face of the cowpuncher and through the scragged branches of the tree. "You'll be damned for it in your own mind.
Probably the brutality was a case of brute force pitted against brute force he had taken into consideration the well-known disposition of the Western cowpuncher and, as such, a matter of regretable necessity for the governing of the place. Shaky had in some way fallen foul of the master and foreman and had allowed personal feelings to warp his judgment.
The ears of the mustang flattened close to its neck and a devil of hate came up in its eyes, but it stood quiet, while Nash went about at a judicious distance and examined all the vital points. The hoofs were sound, the backbone prominent, but not a high ridge from famine or much hard riding, and the indomitable hate in the eyes of the mustang seemed to please the cowpuncher.
Its riders had been kings of the range. That was before the tide of settlement had spilled into the valley, before nesters had driven in their prairie schooners, homesteaded the water-holes, and strung barb-wire fences across the range. Line-riders and dry farmers and irrigators had pushed the cowpuncher to one side. Sheep had come bleating across the desert to wage war upon the cattle.
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