The Overlanders by Nelson Nye Page B

and Frijoles up at the front got them started. They had to crowd them against the fence and even then they kept trying to break around, so wild had they become. Grete gave Rip and Idaho a hand. Then Sary was calling, “They’ll founder if you let them get at that water!”
    “Get over by the springs,” Farraday yelled, “and snap your fish at them.” He looked around for Idaho. “Where’s French?” he growled.
    “Said there was springs at the pass and grass where we could hold ‘em. I sent him on with cook.”
    A big roan broke out of the bunch and Grete went after her but the dun was too weary; she got off into the dark before Grete could make his throw. He rethonged the rope to the fork of his saddle, looked around once again, and headed for the springs to give Sary a hand with the mares as they came larruping up after clearing the chute. “Where’s the stud?” he asked.
    “Gone ahead with Patch.” She heard Grete swear. She said, “He’s tractable enough; you needn’t worry about him.”
    Grete wasn’t. It was French and the man’s proximity to a fast and valuable means of transportation that made him swing down and pull her out of the saddle. “Use mine,” he growled and, catching hold of her reins, was up and slapping the filly into a run before Sary realized what he was up to.
    As he’d suspected, this mount, though gaunted from travel and the day’s lack of water, had a lot more left in her than the dun he’d got off of. He put her into a lope and overtook one of the mares which, having been turned from the springs, was following her nose into the damp air from the pass.
    Riding through oak brush, avoiding thickets of mesquite, he soon sighted Patch’s fire off ahead through the night. In the last hundred yards he reined down to a walk, seeing the black shapes of the men among the thirsty stock which had got there ahead of him. Cook was fighting the mares away from water while French eased them into it three or four at a crack, hardly giving them time to wet their muzzles before whacking them out of it to make room for others. Both men had their hands full. Neither of them spoke though he caught French several times eyeing him covertly. Patch said presently, when the worst of it eased off, “If you an’ Irv can handle this now I’ll try to get some kind of a bait throwed together.”
    “Go ahead,” Grete said, and looked around for the stud. The big Steeldust, with several of the mares, was off to one side cropping at the standing feed which was here mostly salt grass and grama. The horse for some reason appeared to be nervous, looking up and around every couple of mouthfuls. Excited by all this chousing of the mares, probably. “I know,” Grete told French, “you’re busting to cut loose of this. Just don’t try it if you crave to stay healthy.”
    They watered the latest arrivals and hazed them off toward the others, French keeping his mouth shut. Cook had already got the packs off one pair of the work teams and now, with French helping, Grete unloaded the other and got to work on the mares. The stud, he noticed, still continued to seem uneasy, frequently quitting the grass to prowl around with his head up, occasionally biting at a mare. Another batch came in whickering and French chased them away from the water before they could get enough to cause any trouble. Farraday made a rough count, deciding most of them were here. Coffee smell came from the direction of the fire, and he was twisting around to suggest to French they go try some when the stallion sharply bugled.
    “Crew’s comin’,” cook grumbled, “an’ I ain’t got the damn stew het up yet. If you wanta —”
    But Grete was suddenly discovering French had given him the slip. He’d got completely out of sight and Farraday, wheeling around, couldn’t find the stallion, either. He plunged into the oaks, hearing the crew plainly now and the crackle of brush in the black somewhere ahead of him. If French got away