“Hyar!” shouted Johnson, grabbing the cowboy’s bridle, “who’s doin’ this, anyhow?”
“W’y you, Bill,” answered Creede innocently, “but––”
“That’s all right, then,” said the old man shortly, “you leave that steer alone. I’ll jest cut this herd to suit myself.”
Over at the branding pen the irons were on the fire and the marking was progressing rapidly, but out in the open Mr. Bill Johnson was making slow work of his cut.
“He gets stuck on them cows, like an Irishman with his pig,” observed Creede, as the old man turned back a prime four-year-old. “He’d rather be barbecued by the Apaches than part with that big white-faced boy. If I owned ’em I’d send down a lot of them big fat brutes and buy doggies; but Bill spends all the money he gits fer booze anyhow, so I reckon it’s all right. He generally sends out about twenty runts and roughs, and lets it go at that. Say! You’ll have to git a move on, Bill,” he shouted, “we want to send that beef cut on ahead!”
The old man reined in his mare and surveyed the big herd critically.
“Waal,” he drawled, “I reckon that’ll do fer this trip, then. Take ’em along. And the fust one of you punchers that hits one of them critters over the tail with his hondu,” he shouted, as the eager horsemen trotted over to start them, “will hev me to lick!”
He placed an order for provisions with Creede, asked him to keep the supplies at Hidden Water until he came over for them with the burros, and turned away contentedly as the cowboys went upon their way.
Down by the branding pen the mother cows licked the blood from their offsprings’ mangled ears and mooed resentfully, but the big white-faced steer stood 132 in brutish content on the salting grounds and gazed after the town herd thoughtfully.