“Er—he didn’t mention it.” In the panic which seized him he could not frame the words in which to tell her, and he felt an illogical wrath at Bowers—the coward—for not coming with him. For a moment he considered resigning, then walked over to where her horse was feeding to collect himself while her wondering gaze followed him.
Lingle ran his hand along the horse’s neck, the hair of which was stiff with dried sweat, lifted the saddle blanket and looked at its legs, where streaks of lather had hardened. He regarded her keenly as he turned to her.
“You been smokin’ up your horse, I notice.”
“I ran a coyote for two miles this morning—emptied my magazine at him and then didn’t get him.” The truth shining in her clear eyes was unmistakable.
Lingle broke off a handful of sagebrush and used it as a makeshift currycomb, while Kate, a little surprised at the action, picked up the bridle reins when he had finished the gratuitous grooming and started the sheep moving.
“I’ll feed back to camp slowly. Don’t wait for me—you and the herder eat supper.”
“Anything I can do, ma’am?”
“Oh, no, thank you.”
Bowers met the deputy at the door of the cook tent, his eyes gleaming with curiosity.
“Did she beller?”