“Well?” The trail boss turned to Dalhart, grimed and dust-covered, who had brought a tin cup to the fire.
“We’ve got around a thousand head, maybe twelve hunderd. Del and two boys are holding ’em on a flat this side the pecan bottoms—three mile, I reckon. Ain’t it hell? They scattered like pa’tridges. I ain’t seen no one else.”
“Yo, me an’ dos hombres!” began Sanchez, excited, pointing.
“Damn it, talk English, Sanchez!” interrupted Nabours savagely.
“Seguro; muy bien, Señor Corporal,” rejoined Sanchez. “I say, two man and me, we got plenty vacas round up. They send-a me for tobac’. We got h’eight, seven hoonderd head, piense qu’ si. Most half-a da herd.”
“Not half yet. Well, Dalhart, I’ve got to ride the fan. Stay here and watch things. We’ll make the gethering to this bed ground.”
“But who done that shooting anyway?” demanded Dalhart suddenly. “That’s what started ’em.”
Nabours looked over his shoulder to where Taisie sat.
“Dalhart,” said he, “there’s funny business. The Rudabaugh gang is follering us, nigh as I can tell. They allowed to stampede the herd and then jump what was left of the camp.”
“But who shot?”