The gun barked. A fork of hay was rising up from a fresh load. The bullet cut the spring rope. The mass of alfalfa dropped back to the wagon. A splatter of Spanish followed. Billy Magee rode up to the stack.
“Come. Vamoose! Take ’em out of here, Sweeny!”
For a minute there was silence—then consternation. The men stumbled out of the stack and began unhooking the butt chains. They all knew Billy Magee. He was the best-natured man in the country. Everybody knew him. Billy had gone crazy. Only one man stopped to remonstrate.
“Wait,” he said. “You, Billy. You go the loco.” He pointed to his head. “Mebbe better for to have drink. Mebbe so”—he looked up at the sun and wiped his head—“caliente!”
“You bet I’m hot,” snapped the cowboy; “but it’s not the sun. You get down and help with those butt chains. Here you——”
The gun barked again. The frightened Mexican rolled headfirst off the load to the shelter behind the horses. The whole outfit marched ahead; behind came the foreman, and back of him Billy. The alfalfa was waist-high.
“Fine lot of grass,” commented the cowboy.
The other had recovered his courage; knowing Billy he had not crossed him. There is wisdom in discretion—also safety.
“What’s the idea? What’cha pullin’ off? Y’ can’t get by with this kinda stuff—not nowadays. Wait till Holman hears; he’ll come howling.”
“We ain’t arguin’,” said Billy. “I told you I am mad. Ain’t nothin’ in hell any madder. You go get Holman. When he comes I’m going to eat him—raw.”