Tossing the rifle in the hollow of his left arm, he left the cabin and turned toward the end of the valley where the men were engaged. He observed some caution in approaching that portion of the valley. At last he reached a point amid some bowlders from which he could look down into a slight hollow, where stood some half-constructed cabins upon which the men had been working.
Not one of them was at work now. They were lying around carelessly, or sitting in such shade as they could find, smoking and drinking. Several bottles were being passed from hand to hand. Already two or three of them seemed much under the influence of liquor, and one bowlegged fellow greatly amused the others by an irregular, unsteady dance, during which he kicked out first with one foot and then with the other, like a skirt dancer. At intervals some of them sang a melancholy sort of song.
“The miserable dogs!” grated Bart. “They’re ready to defy me now and carry out their treacherous plans.”
A tall man, with a black mustache and imperial, stepped among the others, saying a word now and then and seeming to be their leader.
“You’re the one, Texas Bland!” whispered Hodge. “You have led them into this!”
As he thought of this his fingers suddenly gripped the rifle, and he longed to lean over the bowlder before him, steady his aim, and send a bullet through Texas Bland. Bart was unaware that two men were approaching until they were close upon him. This compelled him, if he wished to escape observation, to draw back somewhat, and he did so. He did not crouch or make any great effort at hiding, for such a thing he disdained to do. He was not observed, however, although the men stopped within a short distance.
“Well, what do yer think o’ this game, Dug?” said one of them, who was squat and sandy.
“I reckons the boss has it all his own way, Bight,” retorted the other, a leathery-faced chap with tobacco-stained beard.
“The boss!” exclaimed Bight. “Mebbe you tells me who is the boss?”
“Why, Bland, of course,” said Dug. “He is the boss.”