“Mark’ll bawl us out if one of them does come up behind us,” Robin observed. “But I ain’t workin’ for the Block S. I don’t want to miss cattle.”
“We ain’t supposed to miss cattle,” Tex replied. “As a matter of fact I remember now that a man can’t ride up on this bench from the river bottom. Steele and Thatcher got to come up the canyon. I was mixed up on that proposition a couple of years ago on a pack trip down here. Mark knows that too. I guess he forgot.”
They turned and rode south. Because to ride down the bench openly would start every hoof running toward the blind cliff overlooking the Big Muddy they sought the farther side and worked along under the brow, out of sight, until they judged they were south of the last bunch. It was rough going on steep sidehills with loose earth crumbling underfoot, gullies to scramble over, thickets of jack pine to scrub their faces with low branches.
They came out on the bench again less than half a mile from the plateau end. Between them and where they had crossed the canyon at least a hundred and fifty cattle showed.
“Shucks, there sure would have been a bunch of stuff missed,” Tex grunted.
“Let’s take a look into the bottom,” Robin said. “Let’s look at the old Missouri once more for a change.”
“Go look your head off,” Matthews said good-naturedly. “I’ve seen her plenty. I near drowned in her two or three times. She’s no beautiful sight I long to see.”
“All right. I’ll catch you.”
Robin headed for the end of the bench on a high run. He wanted to look. He didn’t know what he expected to see. He didn’t know if there was anything to be seen.
What he did lay eyes on was sufficient to make him whirl his horse back out of sight the moment his eyes peered over the high bank. Then he dismounted, crawled to the rim and lay flat on his stomach, just as he had lain and looked that afternoon on Birch Creek, a deeply interested spectator.