The Mexican looked around and wheeled sharply to face the danger, his listlessness gone in a flash. He was not there because of any orders from Meeker, but for reasons of his own. So when the Bar-20 puncher raised his arm and swept it towards the line he sat in sullen indifference, alert and crafty.
"You've got gall!" cried Hopalong. "Who told you to herd up here!"
Antonio frowned but did not reply.
"Yo're three miles too far north," continued Hopalong, riding slowly forward until their stirrups almost touched.
Antonio shrugged his shoulders.
"I ain't warbling for my health!" cried Hopalong. "You start them cows south right away."
"I can't."
Hopalong stared. "You can't! Got a sore thumb, mebby! Well, I reckon you can, an' will."
"I can't. Boss won't let me."
"Oh, he won't! Well, I feel sorry for yore boss but yo're going to push 'em just th' same."