“Oh, nawthin’,” returned the boss lightly, “jest wanted to know.”
“Uhr!” grunted the cowboy contemptuously. “Well, I was killin’ snakes, then! What ye goin’ to do about it?”
“Snakes!” cried Creede incredulously. “Killin’ snakes! Since when did you call a feud on them?”
“Since thet young lady come,” replied Clark, glancing around to see if any one had the nerve to laugh. “I heerd her say she was collectin’ rattles; an’ I thought, while I was waitin’, I might as well rustle up a few. Oh, you don’t need to look pop-eyed––they’s others!”
He rolled his eyes significantly at the group of 273 assembled cowboys, and Creede took it all in at a flash. There were others––he himself had a set of rattles in his shap pocket that were not two hours from the stump. The situation called for diplomacy.
“Well,” he drawled, scratching his bushy head to cover his confusion, “this reflects great credit on your bringin’ up, Jim, and I’m sure Miss Bonnair will appreciate what you’ve done for her, especially as I happened to notice a couple o’ head of your own cows in that bunch, but it’s a mighty expensive way to collect snake-tails. We ain’t gittin’ the cattle, boys; that’s the size of it, and they’re as much yours as they are mine. Now I suggest that we run these few we’ve got down to the corral and brand ’em quick––and then the whole shootin’-match goes over to the big white cliff and rounds up every rattlesnake in the rock pile! Is it a go?”
“Sure!” yelled the bunch impetuously, and as they charged down upon the herd Creede quietly fished out his snake-tail and dropped it in the dirt.
If he lacked a virtue he could feign it, anyhow––but there was no doubt about it, Miss Kitty was putting his rodéo on the bum. There had never been so many men to feed and so few calves to brand in the history of Hidden Water. Even old Bill Johnson had got the fever from hearing the boys talk and was hanging around the fire. But then, what were a few head 274 of cows compared to––well, what was it, anyway? The only man who could stay away was Rufe, and he was in good company.
Yet Creede was not satisfied with this explanation. Miss Kitty was always asking questions about Rufe––they had known each other well in Berkeley––and at the same time the little partner with whom he had been so friendly never came around any more. He was always very polite, and she called him by his first name––and then one of them rode up the river and the other followed the round-up.
The night after the big snake-killing Jefferson Creede picked up his blankets and moved quietly back to the ramada with Hardy.