The question commanded. The old frontiersman listened.
"Hoof express, Sir," promised the sheep-skin leggings.
"And mind you I know nothing about it, Jim. I'm not to be told. I take care of you without you knowing about it. I expect you to take care of us—" the white waist coat became at once impressive and anxious.
"That's all right, Colonel. I understand! We'll crowd 'em to beat Hell; and they'll go it blind. If it's coming dark, they'll shut their eyes and go over blind. I defy Sheriff Flood, himself, if he's standing on the spot to make a case—"
"You need have no fear of Sheriff Flood ever being on the spot.
He'll be busy under his bed that night; but look out for these Federal
puppy-boy Forest Ranger fellows! Finish up off the confounded National
Range. Finish up before they reach the National Range."
"And the Mexican herders?" asked the sheep skin chaps with a flourish of his band above the fire that showed the flash of a diamond on the little finger.
The white vest spread deprecating hands.
"That's your business, Jim! Make a clean sweep of the herd; but see that no harm comes to the boy."
The old frontiersman headed his broncho silently back on the trail.
"Night birds hatching snake eggs. A'm really between two minds to go back and crack their addled heads."