“Oh, well, gosh darn it, go ahead,” Charlie acquiesced. “You got me all excited, kid. I’ll come along, if you like. I’m tired layin’ around camp lookin’ at snowdrifts, anyway.”
A dozen saddled horses stood tied to the bed wagon. The night men all kept horses ready. Mather had a mount there. So did Shaw. They drew on chaps, overcoats. Deep breathing, punctuated by snores, filled the bed tent. Every man was sound asleep. The light was out in the cook tent. They stumbled in there for a last cup of coffee out of the still warm pot, and Charlie left a word with the cook for Bud Cole, who was his second in command. As they came back by the fire, old Mather sat up in bed. He peered out at his son dressed for travel. He beckoned and Bill halted in the mouth of the tent.
“Yo’ a damn fool,” he grumbled. “Leave ’em settle their own troubles.”
“If you’d tell me,” Bill said. A weary patience sounded in his voice.
“It’s that hellcat of a girl,” the old man sputtered. “She’s got Munson on the warpath. He’s bad, Munson is. Like a crazy man. Jed ain’t much better, as fur as that goes.”
“You’re a fine head of a family,” young Bill said scornfully, “runnin’ away, leavin’ Dolly to two fellers like that.”
“I got scared,” the old fellow muttered. “But I didn’t exactly run. Just lit out till they cooled off or got it settled. Then I couldn’t find my way back. Mighty nigh perishin’ in that there storm.”
“You won’t perish here,” Bill said shortly. He turned to his horse. Mounted, he said to Charlie: “There ain’t really no call for you to ride down there with me. I’ll bring back a horse for the old man to ride home to-morrow.”
“If you’re goin’ into the Bad Lands to interfere with two fellers that have gone bughouse over a girl,” Charlie said cheerfully, “you better have company. You sure this ain’t no false alarm?”
Mather shook his head.