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It is hot then, you have the smell of the earth in your nostrils. That, M'siu, is the Santa Ana. It is pale dust and the great push of the wind. The sand bites, there is no seeing the flock's length. They huddle, and the lambs are smothered; they scatter, and the dogs can nothing make. If it blow one day, you thank God; if it blow two days, then is sheepman goin' to lose his sheep.
Shoop talked with him for a few minutes. Together they strolled back to the crowd. The Starr boys were still pitching dollars when Shoop and the sheepman approached. "Who's top-hand in this game?" queried Shoop genially. "High Chin and at any game you got," said a Starr man. "Well, now!" "Any game you got." Shoop gazed about, saw Lorry, and beckoned to him. "Here's my candidate," said Shoop.
Certainly his subsequent actions would seem to bear out this theory. Revenge! The thought of it spurred him every waking hour, roweling his wounded pride cruelly. There was a way within reach of his hand, one suggested by Steelman's whisperings, though never openly advocated by the sheepman.
Your dad was aboot to draw. But Jorth made no sign to throw a gun." Jean saw the growing and weaving and thickening threads of a tangle that had already involved him. And the sudden pang of regret he sustained was not wholly because of sympathies with his own people. "The other day back up in the woods on the Rim I ran into a sheepman who said his name was Colter. Who is he? "Colter?
"Sure it was signed to-day? Couldn't it have been ante-dated?" "You know better than I do. When was it signed?" Fendrick laughed. He was watching the noted officer of rangers with narrowed wary eyes. "On advice of counsel I decline to answer." "Sorry, Cass. That leaves me only one thing to do. You're under arrest." "For what?" demanded the sheepman sharply.
The sheepman accepted the dish of beef, dipped out a spoonful of beans, broke off a slab of bread, and began his meal forthwith, meanwhile looking at Hardy curiously. "What's that you say you've noticed?" he inquired, and a quizzical smile lurked beneath his dripping mustache as he reached over and hefted the coffeepot.
They're bosses, not mustangs.... So you look out, Bostil!" No rider or rancher or sheepman, in fact, no one, ever lost a chance to warn Bostil. Some of it was in fun, but most of it was earnest. The nature of events was that sooner or later a horse would beat the King. Bostil knew that as well as anybody, though he would not admit it. Holley's hint made Bostil look worried.
Reid was smoking a cigarette, his hat pushed back, the shadows of his late discontent cleared out of his face. Below them the sheep were grazing. They were all there; Mackenzie had wit enough in him to see that they were all there. Reid looked at him with a grin that seemed divided between amusement and scorn. "I don't believe you're cut out for a sheepman, Mackenzie," he said.
Though the sharpshooter's rifle cracked twice during his run for the cottonwood, the sheepman reached the tree in safety. He could dodge through the brush as elusively as any man in Wyoming. It was a trick he had learned on the whitewashed football gridiron.
You're fixing to put me behind the bars, and he's the man that really stole it." From this they could not shake him. He stuck to it vindictively, for plainly his malice against the sheepman was great. The latter had spoiled his coup, robbed him of its fruits, and now was letting him go to prison. "I reckon we'd better have a talk with Cass," Bucky suggested in a low voice to the former sheriff.
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