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By ten-thirty food was the chief topic of conversation, and everyone was keeping an eye out for Hicks and the "grub-wagon." At eleven the hilarity had simmered to monosyllables, and old Mr. Penrose, who always became incredibly cross when he was hungry, rode along with his face screwed up like a bad youngster that is being carried out of church for a spanking in the vestibule.
The Las Palmas cowboys rode like centaurs, doubling, dodging, yelling, and whirling their ropes like lashes; the air was drumming to swift hoof-beats, and over all was the hoarse, unceasing undertone from countless bovine throats. Out near the grub-wagon the remuda was grazing, and thither at intervals came the perspiring horsemen to change their mounts.
It was a busy Sunday at the Quarter Circle KT. Chuck, Charley and Pedro spent the morning and most of the afternoon getting the saddle horses from across the river. Bert helped Parker and Old Heck about the ranch. Sing Pete baked a supply of light-bread and stocked the grub-wagon with provisions.
Hicks, driving four horses and the "grub-wagon," and leading the procession. He handled the lines with an aplomb reminiscent of the coaching days of Reginald Vanderbilt, together with the noble bearing of the late Ben Hur tooling his chariot. Mr. Hicks dignified the "grub-wagon" to such an extent that it was a treat to look at him.
An' when a gent goes to rollin' out of his blankets say at sun-up, it makes 'em monstrous angry to be disturbed; an' the first he knows of where they be an' how they looks on early risin', their teeth's in him up to the gyard, an' before night thar's one less gent to cook for, an' an extra saddle rides along in the grub-wagon with the blankets when they next moves camp.
If it's our outfit, though, they've got through quicker than they figured!" A few moments later the dim bulk of the "grub-wagon" appeared, miles away, slowly crawling toward the Quarter Circle KT. For a time Skinny and Carolyn June were silent. Skinny's hand crept slyly across the rock and found the pink fingers of Carolyn June. She did not draw away.
Captain Jack and Silver Tip, riderless but with their saddles still on, were nipping the grass near the camp the Ramblin' Kid and Chuck were to take the first watch, until midnight, at "guard mount." Parker and the cowboys were squatted, legs doubled under them, their knees forming a table on which to hold the white porcelain plate of "mulligan," in a circle at the back of the grub-wagon.
Sing Pete followed the riders, jolting along in the grub-wagon, awkwardly driving, with much clucking and pidgin-English, Old Tom and Baldy hitched to the heavy, canvas-covered vehicle with its "box-kitchen" and mess-board protruding gawkily out from the rear. Old Heck heaved a sigh of relief.
Saturday was a day of considerable tension for all at the Quarter Circle KT. Night came and Parker and the cowboys had not returned. Nor did they come on Sunday. Evidently the beef round-up had gone more slowly than was expected. It was late Monday afternoon when the grub-wagon grumbled and creaked its way up the lane and stopped near the back-yard gate.
It was nearly ten o'clock when Sing Pete stopped the grub-wagon at the bunk-house; Pedro wrangled the saddle cavallard into the pasture below the barn; Parker and the cowboys jogged their bronchos to the stable door and the Ramblin' Kid, riding the Gold Dust maverick Captain Jack at her heels rode to the circular corral, jerked the saddle from the filly's back and turned the little roan stallion and the outlaw mare inside the corral.
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