It was nearing noon when he came out finally upon a little, open flat and found there Big Medicine and Pink holding a bunch of perhaps a hundred cattle which they had gleaned from the surrounding gulches and little “draws” which led into the hills. The two were wet to the skin, and they were chilled and hungry and as miserable as a she-bear sent up a tree by yelping, yapping dogs.
Big Medicine it was who spied him first through the haze of falling water, and galloped heavily toward him, his horse flinging off great pads of mud from his feet as he came.
“Say!” he bellowed when he was yet a hundred yards away. “Got any grub with yuh?”
“No!” Irish called back.
“Y'AIN'T” Big Medicine's voice was charged with incredulous reproach. “What'n hell yuh doin' here without GRUB? Is Patsy comin' with the wagon?”
“No. I sent Patsy on in to town after—”
“Town? And us out here—” Big Medicine choked over his wrongs.
Irish waited until he could get in a word and then started to explain. But Pink rode up with his hatbrim flapping soggily against one dripping cheek when the wind caught it, and his coat buttoned wherever there were buttons, and his collar turned up, and looking pinched and draggled and wholly miserable.
“Say! Got anything to eat?” he shouted when he came near, his voice eager and hopeful.
“No!” snapped Irish with the sting of Big Medicine's vituperations rankling fresh in his soul.