"I wish I had my pistols. I wrote to Bill Wilson about them again, the
other day; if he doesn't send them down pretty soon, I'm going after
them." He stopped, his attention arrested by the peculiar behavior of a
herd of a hundred or more cattle, a little distance from the road.
"Now, what do you suppose is the excitement over there?" he asked; and
for answer Dade turned from the trail to investigate.
"Maybe they've run across the carcass of a critter that's been killed,"
he hazarded, "though this is pretty close home for beef thieves to get
in their work. Most of the stock is killed north and east of Manuel's
camp."
The cattle, moving restlessly about and jabbing their long, wicked horns
at any animal that got in the way, lifted heads to stare at them
suspiciously, before they turned tail and scampered off through the
mustard. From the live oak under which they had been gathered came a
welcoming shout, and the two, riding under the tent-like branches,
craned necks in astonishment.
"Hello, Jack," spoke the voice again. "I'm almighty glad to see yuh!
Hello, Dade, how are yuh?"
"Bill Wilson, by thunder!" Jack's tone was incredulous.
Bill, roosting a good ten feet from the ground on a great, horizontal
limb, flicked the ashes from the cigar he was smoking and grinned down
at them unabashed.
"You sure took your time about getting here," he remarked, hitching
himself into a more comfortable posture on the rough bark.
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