“Thet dog-gone ‘cavvy’ must a-knowed we wanted ’em bad,” said one.
“Like as not they seed Luke comin’ an’ hid out in the willows,” suggested another.
“They shore are an ornery bunch,” admitted a third.
“I could of ridden down there backwards on a bicycle an’ rounded ’em up before this,” boasted a fourth.
“Here they come now,” exclaimed Wichita, as several horses broke from the willows and trotted toward the corrals.
In twos and threes they emerged from the dense foliage until some forty or fifty horses were strung out on the trail to the corrals, and then Luke Jensen rode into sight from out the willows.
“What’s thet critter he’s leadin’?” demanded one of the men.
“It’s saddled,” volunteered another.
“It’s Scar Foot,” said Kreff.
After that there was silence. Some of the men glanced at Wichita; but most of them stood looking away, embarrassed. Scar Foot was Billings’ favorite horse—the animal he had ridden out on the previous day.