In the wake of Hawks Bob rode through the buckbrush. There was smallchance for conversation, and in any case neither of them was in the moodfor talk. Bob's sensitive soul did not want to risk the likelihood of arebuff. He was susceptible to atmospheres, and he knew that Buck wassulky at being saddled with him.
He was right. Buck did not see why Harshaw had put this outcasttenderfoot on him. He did not see why he had hired him at all. One thingwas sure. He was not going to let the fellow get round him. No, sir. Noton his tintype he wasn't.
Since it was the only practical way at present to show his disgust andmake the new puncher feel like a fool, Hawks led him through the roughestcountry he could find at the fastest feasible gait. Buck was a notablywild rider in a country of reckless horsemen. Like all punchers, he hadbeen hurt time and again. He had taken dozens of falls. Two broncos hadgone down under him with broken necks. A third had twisted its leg in abeaver burrow and later had to be shot. This day he outdid himself.
As young Dillon raced behind him along side hills after dogies fleet asblacktails, the heart fluttered in his bosom like a frightened bird in acage. He did not pretend to keep up with Hawks. The best he could do wasto come loping up after the excitement was over. The range-rider made nospoken comment whatever, but his scornful blue eyes said all that wasnecessary.
The day's work did not differ except in details from that of yesterdayand to-morrow. They headed back two three-year-olds drifting too farnorth. They came on a Slash Lazy D cow with a young calf and moved itslowly down to better feed near the creek. In the afternoon they found ayearling sunk in a bog. After trying to pull it out by the ears, theyroped its body and tugged together. Their efforts did not budge theanimal. Hawks tied one end of the rope to the saddle-horn, swung up, andput the pony to the pull. The muscles of the bronco's legs stood out asit leaned forward and scratched for a foothold. The calf blatted withpain, but presently it was snaked out from the quagmire to the firmearth.
They crossed the creek and returned on the other side. Late in theafternoon they met half a dozen Utes riding their inferior ponies. Theyhad evidently been hunting, for most of them carried deer. Old Colorowwas at their head.
He grunted "How!" sulkily. The other braves passed without speaking.Something in their manner sent a shiver up Dillon's spine. He and Hawkswere armed only with revolvers. It would be the easiest thing in theworld for the Indians to kill them if they wished.
Hawks called a cheerful greeting. It suggested the friendliest offeeling. The instructions given to the punchers were to do nothing toirritate the Utes just now.
The mental attitude of the Indians toward the cattlemen and cowboys was acurious one. They were suspicious of them. They resented their presencein the country. But they felt a very wholesome respect for them. Theseleather-chapped youths could outride and outshoot them. With or withoutreason, the Utes felt only contempt for soldiers. They were so easily ledinto traps. They bunched together when under fire instead of scatteringfor cover. They did not know how to read sign on the warmest trail. Theserange-riders were different. If they were not as wary as the Utes, theymade up for it by the dash and aplomb with which they broke throughdifficulties.
In Bear Cat the day before Bob had heard settlers discuss the unrest ofthe Indians. The rumor was that soon they meant to go on the warpathagain. Colorow himself, with a specious air of good will, had warned acattleman to leave the country while there was time.
"You mebbe go--mebbe not come back," he had suggested meaningly. "Mebbebetter so. Colorow friend. He speak wise words."
Until the Utes were out of gunshot Bob felt very uneasy. It was not manyyears since the Meeker massacre and the ambushing of Major Thornburg'stroops on Milk Creek.
Reeves and Hollister were in the bunkhouse when Bob entered it justbefore supper. He heard Dud's voice.
"... don't like a hair of his red haid, but that's how it'll be far asI'm concerned."
There was a moment's awkward silence. Dillon knew they had been talkingabout him. Beneath the deep gold of his blond skin Hollister flushed. Boythough he was, Dud usually had the self-possession of the Sphinx. Butmomentarily he was embarrassed.
"Hello, fellow!" he shouted across the room. "How'd she go?"
"All right, I reckon," Bob answered. "I wasn't much use."
He wanted to ask Dud a question, but he dared not ask it before anybodyelse. It hung in his mind all through supper. Afterward he found hischance. He did not look at Hollister while he spoke.
"Did--did you hear how--Miss Tolliver is?" he asked.
"Doc says he can't tell a thing yet. She's still mighty sick. But Blisterhe sent word to you that he'd let you know soon as there is a change."
"Much obliged."
Bob moved away. He did not want to annoy anybody by pressing hisundesirable society upon him.
That night he slept like a hibernating bear. The dread of the morrow wasno longer so heavy upon him. Drowsily, while his eyes were closing, herecalled the prediction of the fat justice that no experience is as badas one's fears imagine it will be. That had been true to-day at least.Even his fight with the sorrel, the name of which he had later discoveredto be Powder River, was now only a memory which warmed and cheered.
Cowpunchers usually rode in couples. Bob learned next morning that he waspaired with Dud. They were to comb the Crooked Wash country.