“Hello!” began Nabours. “What’s a-eating him?”
The horseman drew up his mount squatting, throwing up a hand—old Sanchez, all his life a Del Sol rider, and the only Mexican allowed to go with the trail herd.
“Pronto, Señor Jeem!” he called. “Los hombres—baja!” He pointed to the herd.
“What hombres, Sanchez? What’s up?”
“Los hombres—they cutta our herd!”
“Cut our herd—what’s that?”
“Read-a our brand—cutta our herd. They say-a we gotta their vacas. They goin’ take!”
“Cut our herd? On our own ground. Not none! The man don’t live that’s going to cut a Del Sol herd without my consent and my help. Come on!”
He set spurs, rode through the thin fringe of mesquite that made the shortest path.
“Come on, McMasters!” he called across his shoulder. “I want you for witness here!”