Jody Weir, on Johnny’s right, sat on the sand in the shadow of his horses. This was not ethical; seeing him, Yoast and Ralston, leading the riot, turned that way, drew aside to right and left, and so loosed the charging hurricane directly at the culprit.
Weir scrambled to saddle and spurred from under. The other riders closed in on the day herd, stirring them up the better to check the outlaws. Half of the round-up crew followed Yoast to the right of the now roused and bellowing day herd, bunching them; the others followed Ralston on Johnny’s side of the herd.
Cole Ralston was the Bar Cross foreman. Overtaking Johnny, he raised a finger; the two drew rein and let the others pass by. Cole spoke to the last man.
“Spike, when they quiet down you ride round and tell all these day-herder waddies that if any of ’em want to write letters they can slip in to the wagon. I’m sending a man to town soon after supper.”
He turned to Johnny, laughing.
“Them outcasts was sure snaky. We near wasted the whole bunch. Had to string ’em out and let ’em run so they thought they was getting away or they’d ha’ broke back into the brush.”
“Two bull fights started already,” observed Johnny. “Your Sunday-School bulls are hunting up the wild ones, just a-snuffin’.”
“The boys will keep ’em a-moving,” said Cole. “Dines, you ride your own horses, so I reckon you’re not drawing pay from the ninety-seven piney-woods brands you’re lookin’ out for. Just turning their cattle in a neighborly way?”
“Someone had to come.”