Buck looked around and cleared his throat: “We've got th' cows on th' home trail, Frenchy,” he suggested.
“Yas?” Inquired Frenchy. “Are there many?”
“Yas,” replied Buck, waving his hand at the guards, ordering them to follow their friends. “It's a good deal for us: we've done right smart this hand. An' it's a good thing we've got so many punchers: we got a lot of cattle to drive.”
“About five times th' size of th' herd that blamed near made angels out'en me an' yu,” responded Frenchy with a smile.
“I hope almighty hard that we don't have no stampedes on this here drive. If th' last herds go wild they'll pick up th' others, an' then there'll be th' devil to pay.”
Frenchy smiled again and shot a glance at where Mr. Trendley was bound to the cabin wall.
Buck looked steadily southward for some time and then flecked a foam-sud from the flank of his horse. “We are goin' south along th' Creek until we gets to Big Spring, where we'll turn right smart to th' west. We won't be able to average more'n twelve miles a day, 'though I'm goin' to drive them hard. How's yore grub?”
“Grub to burn.”
“Got yore rope?” Asked the foreman of the Bar-20, speaking as if the question had no especial meaning.
Frenchy smiled: “Yes.”