No time to debate. The girls ran blindly up the trail beside the creek. It was the quickest way for Maybelle’s enterprise too. Rough, twisty going; breathless, they swung around a clump of scrub—and there right before them was the steer, sunk nearly to his knees in the soft mud. The young fellows sitting their ponies about him, joking over the enterprise, hadn’t gotten sight of the two girls. Maybelle pulled back a little, out of range; it was no part of her plan to be caught by her brother in what she was doing. Lefty Adams was rolling a fresh cigarette, one leg thrown over the saddle horn. He slanted a glance at the unfortunate one in the mud who was still, as Tod had said, shaking his head and grumbling, rolling bloodshot eyes.
“Huh! One of old man Hipp’s lazy H’s,” drawled Lefty in a disgusted tone.
“That’s what he is.” Fayte Marchbanks began to re-coil the rope he’d been loosening from his saddle horn.
“Old man Hipp!” sniffed Sam Cole. “Anybody that wants to, can pull a steer out of the mud for that old skeezicks!”
“Aw—we ain’t going to pull it out for Hipp,” argued Lefty. “Just going to snake the long-horn out for fun. Go to it, fellows. First one speaks has got first go. Who wants to dab a rope on him?”
On the instant Fayte Marchbanks caught sight of those light fluttering dresses on the path below. Here was a chance to show off before Hilda.
“I’ll snake him out!” he cried, sat forward in his saddle, and with a flourish his rope flew out and settled over the broad, swinging horns. Fayte was pulling in the slack, making fast and starting his pony, when Pearse Masters, glancing toward the path below, called out sharply.
“Hold on, Marchbanks! There’s some one afoot down there.” It was the first word that had passed between these two since the night of the dance, and the red surged up in Fayte’s dark face, his eyes gleamed. His answer was lost in the queer, yelping bellow of the steer as the rope grew taut. The other boys laughed. One more heave and the brute would be free.
“Hold on,” Pearse repeated. “I tell you there’s some one afoot down there on the path. Give them a chance to get out of the way!”
But with a great kicking and splattering and lashing out of gaunt, powerful legs, the steer had already hauled free from the mud, gone almost down, rolled partly over—and Fayte’s rope slipped from his horns!