In an instant the big red steer came charging upon him, with mischief in his eye. The cowboy saw the brute, and dodging, made a rapid sprint for the nearest fence, clambering over it amid the derisive shouts of the spectators. The man’s sudden scramble had brought him within a few feet of Westcott who, turning to look at him, made a gesture of recognition.
“Hullo, Broome!” he said: “I didn’t know you were down here.”
“Looks like I was on the spot,” the fellow answered, “I bin holdin’ it down fer about a week.”
“I heard you went prospecting,” Westcott continued, and Broome swore, under his breath.
“Came mighty near cashin’ in that trip,” he growled, and then he drew nearer, with a quick glance at the others, who were walking on toward the horse corral.
“Say, Mr. Westcott,” he muttered, “Have you seen that there feller up ’t the casa? Him with the hair mattress on his face?”
“Do you mean Gard?” Westcott asked in amazement.
“Yep: that’s his name. Damn him an’ it! I met up with him on my ‘tower.’ He’s some buffalo now; but he was haired up like a bug-house billy-goat then. But say, Mr. Westcott: he’d struck it rich; got a streak o’ color that fair stunk o’ gold, back in the mountains. I want to tell you ’bout it.”
Westcott looked after his companions.
“I can’t stop to hear it now, Broome,” he said. “Shall you be round when I leave here? I’ll talk to you then.”