His companion nodded emphatically, and offered to superintend the work. "Ridley can handle th' tallyin' for us out here. They've all been selected, an' comin' as slow as they do, it ain't no two-man job. Mebby th' Double X will lend a couple more men to help—they're finishin' a pair of chutes up there, an' know what's wanted. What you say about it?"
Big Tom considered, and grudgingly gave his consent. Gus Thompson, tired as he was, volunteered to go to his ranch with the request, and started as soon as he had eaten. And by the night of the second day following, when the road-branded Triangle herd was being held to await the coming of McCullough, two eight-cow chutes were ready on the Bar H for the handling of its thousand head.
The round-up on the Bar H went forward with a swing and when it came time for the road branding the chutes proved their worth. The cattle, driven up in groups of eight, were forced into the long, narrow boxes as fast as the branded group went out at the other end. A bar dropped past the nose of the leader, and another bar dropped behind the last one in. Two men standing on a platform running along the side of the chute, each was handed a freshly heated iron and hurried from animal to animal, stamping the brand on each in turn. All morning the long chutes filled and emptied, the men changing places as they tired, the iron handlers so bothered by the stinging odor of burning hair that none of them worked longer than two or three hours without being relieved.
"I'm backin' this here magazine-action brandin' with a hundred an' fifty pounds of fightin' Irish," declared Reilly, chuckling at the almost automatic working of the chutes. "Eight in, stamped an' out again while we'd be workin' on one slippery cuss. Seventy th' last hour for Sam's chute, an' Fraser crowdin' him close; an' us tenderfeet at it—I'm bettin' th' last hour does ninety to th' chute. We're gettin' th' hang of it, an' gettin' it fast."
"Slippin' along like water down hill," laughed Slim, borrowed from his bed and board to help the Bar H. "Hey, Ridley!" he called to the busy inspector, "got any new-fangled improvements that'll make these chutes do it themselves, so th' hard-workin' punchers won't have to loaf in their saddles, but can set around an' gamble? Holy Maverick! Look at him tallyin'! He's shore workin' harder than he was yesterday."
"Who's loafin', you fool?" snorted Sam, taking breath while the chute was being refilled. "I've stamped close to eight thousand since I climbed up here, an'—Hot iron! Hot iron!" he yelled as the front bar dropped. "Wake up, you tramp!"
"You've got a lot to say, you has!" snapped Lefferts, running up with the irons. "All you got to do is push 'em ag'in' their hides—I'm near wore out!"
"Why use any bars at all?" queried Reilly, grinning at the hard-working Sam. "Just let 'em filter through, stamping 'em on th' run. We're wastin' time, this way."
"You've got near as much sense as Sam has!" retorted Lefferts, stirring his fire. "Which ain't payin' neither of you no compliments," he grunted.