And then, all the anger and blood-lust that had been in Bowles' heart for days went suddenly to his right hand, and, putting his shoulder behind it, he smote the ex-twister on the jaw. It was a wicked blow, very much like the one he had received himself, and it laid the false cow-puncher low. He came up reaching for his gun, and Bowles knocked him down again, and took the gun away. Then he passed it on to Brigham, and offered to fight him some more—or anybody! A raging devil of combat seemed to possess him, and he shouted for war, and more war. The cowboys drew away from him as from a man who has lost his right mind, and it was not until Brigham had cajoled him into dipping his hot head into the horse-trough that Bowles left off his raving. A drink of Mr. Mosby's strong coffee, and a rest on his bed by the sheds, and his sanity was completely restored—but his illusions were lost forever!
Never again would Samuel Bowles try to beat the cow-puncher at his own game; never would he mount a wild horse; and never would he put faith in womankind. Not out West, anyway. To be sure, Dixie Lee had saved him from the man-killer, but she had done it in such a way as to injure his pride irreparably. And if anybody had cooled his fevered brow after the accident, it certainly was not Dixie, but Brigham Clark, when he ducked his head in the horse-trough. A sudden aversion to his surroundings—a stern dislike for sentiment and the Bat Wing—came over Bowles as he lay moping in his blankets, and, rising on his elbow, he called to Brigham.
"Brig," he said, "I'm going to quit this accursed ranch—would you mind catching my private horse?"
"No, ner mine neither!" fulminated Brig. "I jest been waitin' fer ye to say the word—been ready myse'f fer a week!"
He hopped on his horse as he spoke, and rode out into the pasture, and as he returned with their private mounts Gloomy Gus came over from the fire.
"What ye goin' to do, Brig," he inquired; "quit?"
"Yep," answered Brig, as he lashed their beds on his spare horse; "gittin' too bad fer me. Next thing you know, somebody'd git killed."
"That's right," agreed Gus gloomily; "gittin' pretty bad around hyer. Cow-punchin' ain't what it used to be. Well, I'm sorry to see you go."
He put them up a lunch and watched them off, and then turned back to his pots and kettles, grumbling and shaking his head.
That was their only farewell, but as they rode out the gate, Dixie Lee appeared at the big house door and looked after them as they passed. Their mounts alone told the story of their departure, and their beds on the horse behind; but though she knew they were quitting, she stood silent and made no sign.