Brigham looked up from his cup of coffee and said nothing. Then, seeing many furtive eyes upon him, he laughed shortly, and filled his cup again.
"Yore eyes look kinder bad, Seven," he said. "Must've kinder strained 'em last night."
"Nope," answered Bar Seven, upon whom the allusion was not lost; and with this delicate passage at arms the subject of big stories was dropped. Henry Lee came down, there was a call for horses, and in the turmoil of roping and mounting the matter was forgotten. Brigham had scored a victory and he was satisfied, while the stray men were biding their time. So the marvels of the Hippodrome were held in reserve, and the round-up supplied the excitement.
As the riding of bronks progressed, the accidents that go with such work increased. Almost every morning saw its loose horse racing across the flats, and the number of receptive candidates for the job of day-herding was swelled by the battle-scarred victims. Then fate stepped in, the scene was changed, and Bowles found himself a man again.
"Bowles," said Henry Lee, as he lingered by the fire, "can you drive a team?"
Visions of a flunky's job driving the bed-wagon rose instantly in his mind; but Bowles had been trained to truth-telling and he admitted that he could.
"Ever drive a wild team?" continued Lee, with a touch of severity.
"Well—no," answered Bowles. "I've driven spirited horses, such as we have in the East, but——"
"Think you could drive the grays to Chula Vista and back?"
"Oh, the grays!" cried Bowles, a sudden smile wreathing his countenance as he thought of that spirited pair. "Why, yes; I'm sure I could!"