“I’m deef, dumb an’ blind,” said he. “What’d we do? Cross the canyon, see a few head behind us, a little back, an’ get ’em?”
“Yes, if anybody asks,” Robin agreed.
“Guess maybe we had better run a little fat off these steers,” Tex drawled, “else we sure will have Mark inquirin’ where in hell we were at. An’ you don’t want him gettin’ curious? Eh?”
“You’re gettin’ curious?”
The Texan shook his head.
“I been on many a cow range since I quit the Rio Grande,” said he. “An’ on some of ’em I learned not to be curious. It’s a wise cow-hand that knows enough to keep his mouth shut. The flies don’t get in.”
“Blow flies,” Robin muttered.
Tex laughed.
“You’re a bright kid,” he said teasingly. “Let’s push these cows on an’ talk about the weather.”
They hazed the cattle up the bench, between those gaudy canyons, torn out of the plains level as if by some Gargantuan plow. Robin loped over to the rim of the canyon once for a look down. Cattle were running. He could see the glint and flash of shining horns. Far back a haze of dust showed where Steele and Thatcher were punching up the drag. Robin felt easier. He and Tex were well ahead of that thieving pair. Mark would not be suspicious of spying from above.