which Rip was chousing off now toward where Frijoles and cook were loose-herding the rest of them.
The older man said, “We’d like to be neighborly…”
“We’ll undertake to ride herd on them,” Grete smiled persuasively, noting the curl of Idaho’s lip. “I can keep the whole crew at it if that’ll ease your mind any. We’ll take them over to the seep and bed them down or up into that stand of blackjack just this side of the pass if you’d like that better.”
Idaho turned away with a snort and got onto his horse and rode after Rip.
“What’s the name of this place?” Sary asked, and the younger brother came around to stare at her.
Grete said, “Happy Valley,” and found the older man giving him a sharper scrutiny.
“You’ve been here before.”
“Worked cattle all through this country,” Grete nodded.
The younger one said, “If they’ll ride herd on their stock I vote we take ‘em up on it. There’s a sorrel filly in that bunch would suit me fine.”
Ben’s face flushed darkly for the fellow was looking at Sary when he said it. Grete was surprised to discover resentment in himself; this piled flesh fuel on the rage smoldering in him. But he kept it off his face. “If that’s all right with you,” he said to the other one, “go ahead and make your pick. I want to get these mares to water.”
The older brother didn’t like being rushed. You could see it. He paid no attention at all to the girl but kept looking around at Ben. Now he said, “You got the right to do what you want with these horses?”
“I’ve got the right of a trail boss and a half interest on top of that.”
The bold eyes of the younger one kept ogling Sary with an open lust that was hard to take. Ben caught hold of her arm and towed her away and the older one said, “We’ll want bills of sale for them.”
“In the morning,” Grete nodded.
“We’ll make our pick now.”
They rode over to where the band was being held and Grete was starting to break a lantern from a pack when the older one said, “You’ve got to take them past the ranch. We’ve got chutes. We’ll pick ‘em there.”
Just short of full dark they sighted the buildings. There was a horse trap and chutes and three stout corrals made of blackjack oak, one of them a round one with a post set in its center. The two brothers went on ahead to make ready. Sary came up to Farraday then. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” she said.
“We’ll have trouble enough without fighting them. How’s French?”
“For a hardcase,” she said, “you’re not much of a shot.”
“You give him back his pistol?”
He couldn’t catch her expression in the failing light but could tell by the stiffening set of her shoulders it had been a fool thing to ask. He was disgruntled to find himself saying, “Been no point in me trying to kill him after he shot off his mouth.”
“I didn’t think so, either.”
They rode a few strides before that one caught up with him. She knew when it did by the sharp look he gave her. She said, “What have you done with Barney Olds?”
He was riled enough then to ignore her completely. He was minded to bad enough. Instead he said curtly: “You’re welcome to ride back and look if you want.”
It was childish, he reckoned. She had no reason to trust him. And why the hell should he give a damn! He discovered he did and that hacked him still more. He spun the gelding away from her.
They’d got a light at the chutes and Ben’s handpicked crew was getting the stock strung out toward the wing. The brothers had hung lanterns onto posts above the squeeze and now were scrambling up. If they worked help there wasn’t any in evidence. A dozen horses in the trap were sending quips at the mares but the latter had caught the smell of water and were letting the crew know it, kicking and biting, raising general hell. Idaho caught one’s rump with a rope’s end. “Send ‘em through!” one of the brothers yelled.
Ben
The older man said, “We’d like to be neighborly…”
“We’ll undertake to ride herd on them,” Grete smiled persuasively, noting the curl of Idaho’s lip. “I can keep the whole crew at it if that’ll ease your mind any. We’ll take them over to the seep and bed them down or up into that stand of blackjack just this side of the pass if you’d like that better.”
Idaho turned away with a snort and got onto his horse and rode after Rip.
“What’s the name of this place?” Sary asked, and the younger brother came around to stare at her.
Grete said, “Happy Valley,” and found the older man giving him a sharper scrutiny.
“You’ve been here before.”
“Worked cattle all through this country,” Grete nodded.
The younger one said, “If they’ll ride herd on their stock I vote we take ‘em up on it. There’s a sorrel filly in that bunch would suit me fine.”
Ben’s face flushed darkly for the fellow was looking at Sary when he said it. Grete was surprised to discover resentment in himself; this piled flesh fuel on the rage smoldering in him. But he kept it off his face. “If that’s all right with you,” he said to the other one, “go ahead and make your pick. I want to get these mares to water.”
The older brother didn’t like being rushed. You could see it. He paid no attention at all to the girl but kept looking around at Ben. Now he said, “You got the right to do what you want with these horses?”
“I’ve got the right of a trail boss and a half interest on top of that.”
The bold eyes of the younger one kept ogling Sary with an open lust that was hard to take. Ben caught hold of her arm and towed her away and the older one said, “We’ll want bills of sale for them.”
“In the morning,” Grete nodded.
“We’ll make our pick now.”
They rode over to where the band was being held and Grete was starting to break a lantern from a pack when the older one said, “You’ve got to take them past the ranch. We’ve got chutes. We’ll pick ‘em there.”
Just short of full dark they sighted the buildings. There was a horse trap and chutes and three stout corrals made of blackjack oak, one of them a round one with a post set in its center. The two brothers went on ahead to make ready. Sary came up to Farraday then. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” she said.
“We’ll have trouble enough without fighting them. How’s French?”
“For a hardcase,” she said, “you’re not much of a shot.”
“You give him back his pistol?”
He couldn’t catch her expression in the failing light but could tell by the stiffening set of her shoulders it had been a fool thing to ask. He was disgruntled to find himself saying, “Been no point in me trying to kill him after he shot off his mouth.”
“I didn’t think so, either.”
They rode a few strides before that one caught up with him. She knew when it did by the sharp look he gave her. She said, “What have you done with Barney Olds?”
He was riled enough then to ignore her completely. He was minded to bad enough. Instead he said curtly: “You’re welcome to ride back and look if you want.”
It was childish, he reckoned. She had no reason to trust him. And why the hell should he give a damn! He discovered he did and that hacked him still more. He spun the gelding away from her.
They’d got a light at the chutes and Ben’s handpicked crew was getting the stock strung out toward the wing. The brothers had hung lanterns onto posts above the squeeze and now were scrambling up. If they worked help there wasn’t any in evidence. A dozen horses in the trap were sending quips at the mares but the latter had caught the smell of water and were letting the crew know it, kicking and biting, raising general hell. Idaho caught one’s rump with a rope’s end. “Send ‘em through!” one of the brothers yelled.
Ben
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