“He thinks he’s a damned coyote,” said a voice.
“You’re thinkin’ it’s a yowl,” said another. “But you’ve got him wrong. He’s a jackass, come a-courtin’.”
“A man can’t get no sleep at all, scarcely,” grumbled another.
But Owen had accomplished his purpose. For during the exchange of amenities Randerson had answered him—without turning, though:
“What you wantin’, Red?” he said.
“You figger we’ve got ’em all out of the timber?” repeated Owen.
“Shucks.” Randerson’s voice was rich with mirth. “Why, I reckon. Unless you was figgerin’ to use a fine-toothed comb. Why, the boys was all a-nappin’, Red,” he added gently.
He did not look around, so that Owen might give him the warning wink that would have put him on his guard. Owen would have tapped him on the shoulder, but glancing sidelong, he saw Dorgan watching him, and he did not. A ripple of scornful laughter greeted Randerson’s reply, and with a sneering glance around, Owen again sought his blanket.
The reception that had been accorded his effort had made him appear ridiculous, he knew. It would be days before the outfit would cease referring to it.
He stretched himself out on the blanket, but after a few moments of reflection, he sat up, doggedly. He had been imagining all sorts of dire things that Dorgan might have in mind. He had a presentiment of impending trouble, and so deep was it that his forehead was damp with perspiration.