“I have had no experience in love making,” returned Hollis, puzzled again.
Norton cackled. “No,” he said, “an’ that’s the peculiar part of it. Mostly no one has ever had any experience when they start to makin’ love the first time. But they all make it the same way. That’s why it ain’t original. You take a man which has got in love with a girl–any man. He don’t want anyone to know that he’s in love with her–he feels sorta sheepish about it. Goes around hangin’ his head an’ blushin’, an’ mostly not sayin’ anything about it. Once he gets it into his system he ain’t the same man any more. Takes to actin’ reserved like an’ gentle. But them that’s had experience can see the symptoms. There ain’t no way to hide it.”
Had Norton looked at Hollis now he might have observed a touch of red in the young man’s face. But he did not look; he was watching the trail ahead, smiling broadly.
They had been riding through a deep depression, going toward a ridge whose crest was fringed with dense, tangled shrubbery. Hollis was about to reply to Norton’s remark when he saw the latter’s lips suddenly straighten; saw his body stiffen as he drew himself erect in the saddle and pulled his pony abruptly up. Surprised, Hollis also reined in and sat silent, looking at Norton.
The latter’s hand went to one of his ears, the fingers spreading out, fan like. “Listen!” he warned sharply.
Hollis had been listening. A low rumble greeted his ears. He looked suddenly upward at the sky, fearful that another storm, such as he had encountered months before, might be forming. But the sky was cloudless. He looked again at Norton. The latter’s eyes shone brightly in the moonlight as he leaned toward Hollis. The rumbling had grown more distinct.
“It ain’t a stampede,” said Norton rapidly; “there wouldn’t be anything to stampede cattle on a night like this. An’ them’s cattle!”
It was about a hundred yards to the ridge toward which they had been riding and Hollis saw Norton suddenly plunge the spurs into his pony’s flanks; saw the animal rush forward. He gave his own animal the spurs and in an instant was at Norton’s side, racing toward the ridge. The range boss dismounted at the bottom, swiftly threw the reins over his pony’s head, and running stealthily toward the crest. Hollis followed him. When he reached Norton’s side the latter was flat on a rim rock at the edge of a little cliff, behind some gnarled brush. Below them the country stretched away for miles, level, unbroken, basking in the moonlight. Hollis recognized the section as that through which he had traveled on the night he had been overtaken by the storm–the big level that led to Big Elk crossing, where he had met Dunlavey and his men that night.
Looking out upon the plain he held his breath in amazement. During the time he had been at the Circle Bar he had seen cattle running, but never had he seen them run like this. About a quarter of a mile from the ridge on which he and Norton stood rose a dust cloud–moving swiftly. But ahead of the cloud, heads down, their horns tossing were a number of cattle, perhaps fifty, racing furiously. They were running parallel with the ridge and would probably pass it. Behind and flanking them raced several cowboys, silent, driving with their quirts.
“Rustlers!” came Norton’s voice from beside him. “They’re headin’ for Big Elk!”