“We’ve got to walk, I reckon,” Frances said, slowly.
“How about this steer?” asked the young man, curiously.
“I think he’s tamed enough for the time,” said the girl, with a smile. “Anyway I want my rope. It’s a good one.”
She began to untangle the bald-faced steer. He struggled and grunted and tossed his wide, wicked horns free. To tell the truth Pratt was more than a little afraid of him. But he saw that Frances had reloaded the revolver she carried, and he merely stepped aside and waited. The girl knew so much better what to do that he could be of no assistance.
“Now, Pratt,” she said, at last, “stand from under! Hoop-la!”
She swung the looped lariat and brought it down smartly upon the beast’s back as it struggled to its shaking legs. The steer bellowed, shook himself like a dog coming out of the water, or a mule out of the harness, and trotted away briskly.
“He’ll follow the herd, I reckon,” Frances said, smiling again. “If he doesn’t they’ll pick him out at the next round-up. His brand is too plain to miss.”
“And now we’re afoot,” said Pratt. “It’s a long walk for you back to the house, Frances.”
“And longer for you to the Edwards ranch,” she laughed. “But perhaps you will fall in with some of Mr. Bill’s herders. They’ll have an extra mount or two. I’ll maybe catch Molly. She’s a good pinto.”
“But oughtn’t I to go back with you?” questioned Pratt, doubtfully. “You see–you’re alone–and afoot—”