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The squat cowpuncher's eyes moved back to the aspens and found there the owner of the D Bar Lazy R. "Wha'dya want?" he growled sullenly. "You just now. Step right out from the house, Shorty. Tha's right. Anybody else in the house?" "No." "You'll be luckier if you tell the truth." "I'm tellin' it." "Hope so. Dave, step forward and get his six-shooter. Keep him between you and the house.
Tilted on the back of his head was a cowpuncher's pinched-in hat. He too had black hair and a black mustache. Like all the Rutherfords he was handsome after a fashion, though the debonair recklessness of his good looks offered a warning of temper. "'Lo, Boots," he greeted his sister, and fastened his black eyes on her guest.
Dingwell returned with a pair of high-heeled cowpuncher's boots. "Try these on, son. They belong to Dusty. The lazy hobo wasn't up yet. If they fit you, he'll ride back to the ranch in his socks." After stamping about in the boots to test them, Roy decided that they would do. "They fit like a coat of paint," he said.
What's the matter, pa?" asked his wife, for the old cowpuncher's face was pale even through his tan. "Young Seaton was jest here. He an' a hundred other fellers is combin' the range an' warnin' everyone agin that Dan Barry. The bullet in his shoulder he got it while he was breaking jail with Lee Haines. An' he shot down the hosses of two men an' his dog pulled down a third one."
At first the boys objects, sayin' that the kid was a cowpuncher's kid, but Rifle-Eye convinces 'em that the youngster's locoed for fair, that he's likely to stay that way for good an' all, and sence they agrees they can't ever make anythin' out of him, they lets him go. "Then Rifle-Eye, he takes this unfortunate kid to the man that owned the sheep.
And with that, still smiling at his own folly in a rather shamefaced way, he turned in the blankets and dropped the big coil of the lariat over a nail which projected from the boards just over the head of his bunk. The noose was outermost and could be disengaged from the nail by a single twist of the cowpuncher's hand as he lay passive in the bunk. On this noose Bard cast a curious eye.
They had spent themselves and could do no more. The line of fire had passed over them. It left charred trees still burning, a hillside black and smoking, desolation and ruin in its path. Out of the prospect hole a man crawled over Dave's prostrate body. He drew a breath of sweet, delicious air. A cool wind lifted the hair from his forehead. He tried to give a cowpuncher's yell of joy.
All was bustle and confusion, but out of the turmoil emerged order. The wranglers, already fed, moved into the darkness to bring up the remuda. Tin cups and plates rattled merrily. Tongues wagged. Bits of repartee, which are the salt of the cowpuncher's life, were flung across the fire from one; to another.
Buddy gave him one preoccupied glance and started for the cabin, walking with the cowpuncher's peculiar, bowlegged gait which comes of wearing chaps and throwing out the knees to overcome the stiffness of the leather. At thirteen Buddy was a cowboy from hat-crown to spurs-and at thirteen Buddy gloried in the fact. To-day, however, his mind was weighted with matters of more importance than himself.
Takin' a li'l' journey north." The cowpuncher's blue eyes sparkled. The prosaic pursuit of a stray mount had of a sudden become Adventure. "You mean ?" "What do you read from this sign we've cut?" Bob told his deductions. "Powder River met some one on horseback. The man got off. Here's his tracks." "Fellow, use yore haid," admonished his friend. "Likewise yore eyes.
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