Outside the door, Belle hugged her six-shooter to her breast and leaned against the wall, her knees shaking under her. “Thank God! Oh, thank God a Lorrigan can be bigger than all the Lorrigan blood that’s in him!” she whispered. “Oh, Lance, honey––oh, thank God!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE MAKING OF NEW TRAILS
At the corral, that time-honored conference ground of all true range men, the three Lorrigans leaned their backs against the rails and talked things over in true range style: laconic phrases that stated their meaning without frills or mental reservations, and silences that carried their thoughts forward to the next utterance.
“Al can take the outfit and drift,” said Tom, as though he were discussing some detail of the round-up. “He knows where––and they can scatter, I’ll give ’em a horse apiece as a––a kinda bonus. I’ll have to stay, looks like. Fall round-up’s coming on.”
“Wel-ll,” said Lance, throwing an arm over a rail and drumming with his fingers, “I was raised on round-ups. I don’t suppose I’ve forgotten all about it. You might turn the management over to me for a year or so, and take a trip. Belle needs it, dad. I think I could keep things riding along, all right.”
“Sounds kinda like you had that idea for a 346 joker up your sleeve,” Al observed meaningly. “Are you plumb sure of that dope, Lance?”