“How about the brand; has it been changed?” asked Bob, seeing the flank of the returned steer turned toward them.
“It’s been burned out entirely; but no new one made yet,” Frank replied.
“How was that, do you suppose, Frank?”
“Perhaps Old Baldy was too much for the Mexican ropers,” the other answered; “and they just had to give up the idea of putting another brand on him. Then again, if Spanish Joe or his nephew Abajo happened to be in the bunch of rustlers, they would recognize Old Baldy, and warn the others that it would be dangerous to try and slip him through. No matter, here he is, right side up with care, and as ready as ever to do battle.”
“Look at him going to horn the dead wolf,” said Bob. “He’ll spoil the skin for you, Frank, if you don’t watch out.”
“Oh! I don’t care much about that,” Frank remarked; “because it’s an old and sunburned pelt at best; but I’d like dad to see the thief intact. So let’s ride forward, and induce Old Baldy to stop his sport.”
The steer retreated at their advance, still shaking his head threateningly, as though not quite convinced that he had better keep the peace. Possibly he recognized Frank as an old acquaintance, and was so rejoiced to be back again amid the associations of his earlier years that he decided not to attack them. Had he tried anything of the sort he would have rued the day, because
Frank could throw the rope as well as any cowboy, and he would speedily have rolled Old Baldy over on his back.
Once again the dead wolf was tossed across the back of the plunging buckskin pony. No matter how well trained a horse may be, he will never become accustomed to the presence of a beast of prey. Even circus horses show their nervousness, after drawing a cage containing a tiger or a lion for weeks and months at a time.
Old Baldy trotted along after them as they rode off.