“It sure was lucky that I remembered seein’ you blacksmithin’ on your uncle’s ranch,” said Swingley, reining his horse beside Bertram’s, shortly after the start was made. “You may have to help us out a little more before we git through, but, anyway, mebbe you’ll have pleasanter work mixed in with the blacksmithin’—a little shootin’ at a mark, for instance.” Swingley had grinned meaningly, as he spoke.
“I’ve heard there might be some shooting,” observed Bertram dryly, “but I might as well let you know right now that I always get an awful attack of buck fever when I’m shooting at men.”
“You’ll forget it when we hit into the thick of the fightin’,” returned Swingley, not catching the sarcasm in Bertram’s voice, or deliberately overlooking it. “I don’t mind tellin’ you that we may be in for a little ruction inside of another twelve hours. We’ve come up here to put an end to cattle rustlin’ in this part of the State. The rustlers are so strong that they’ve been runnin’ things as they wanted. But, when they see what they’re up against now, it may be that they’ll quit without a fight. If they don’t—so much the worse for them.”
Swingley turned in his saddle and looked proudly back at his little army. The sight would have inspired pride in any captain. Here was a grim company of tanned, resolute-looking horsemen, riding with that easy grace peculiar to the saddlemen of the Western plains. The loud jests that had been heard on the train were not in evidence. The men rode quietly. Pistols were ready to the grasp, as were the guns in the scabbards at the horses’ sides. Behind the command rumbled the camp wagons.
“Cattle rustlin’ is goin’ to be a lot less popular than it has been, before this outfit is through,” observed Swingley, “and there’ll be some old scores that’ll be paid off in full, too.”
The cattleman’s voice was thick with passion. His heavy brows were drawn together in a frown, and the muscles of his powerful jaws worked spasmodically as he clenched his teeth determinedly.
“I hope this crowd ain’t been brought up here just to settle some old personal scores,” answered Bertram, his voice bringing Swingley back with a start.
The cattleman, darting a quick glance at Bertram, realized that he had said too much. Muttering something about picking a camping place for the night he spurred ahead, leaving Bertram plodding with the column at the moderate pace which had been prescribed.
The young Texan’s thoughts went back once more to the girl whom he had met at the station. He paid scant attention to the talk of Archie Beam, who had taken Swingley’s place at his side. He was wondering about the girl—who she was, and the mission which had sent her on her long journey. Evidently it was a mission of some danger, for she had hinted at enemies who had sought to interfere with her progress. And her apparent knowledge of the purpose of the expedition was a puzzle. How much did she know of Swingley’s invasion of Wyoming, and what interest could it hold for her?
“Well, if nothin’ else’ll wake you up, pardner,” said Archie good-naturedly, after many ineffectual attempts to arouse Bertram to conversation, “mebbe the smell of a little bacon and coffee will help. It looks as if we’re goin’ to camp right ahead, and them chuck wagons can’t come up too soon fer me. I could eat everything in them wagons and then chase the hosses.”