“Kin savvy. No wagon in sight, and a right loose drive. I’ll go back.”
He met the leader of the new herd, who was riding to meet him; a tall, loose-clad man of aquiline features. He was perhaps thirty-six years of age, and of a certain gay assurance, as his laughing eye declared. His beard, pointing down to his breast, was dark and glossy. Even in his rags he did not lack in jauntiness.
“How, amigo!” Nabours pulled up.
“Caballero!” rejoined the other, grinning and extending a brown and sinewy hand. “My name’s Dalhart, from Uvalde. Which way?”
“North,” said Nabours; and no more.
“You got a trail herd?”
“Si, Señor. Fustest and damnedest ever went out o’ Caldwell.”
“What’s your brand?”
“T. L.—we’re Del Sol people; old Colonel Lockhart.”
“Shore, I know you! Well, you’ll want to cut our herd, for we got plenty o’ yore cows.”