In each party, it will be remembered that there were several of the men who secretly sided with the sister of Hatch Walker, the rustler, Uncle Fred’s wife; and apparently the stockman had been uneasy
lest these fellows do everything in their power to create discord in the ranks, and delay the drive until their friends the rustlers came along.
It seemed however, that from some cause or other they could not have deemed it good policy to attempt this tricky play. Perhaps they saw from the way things were working that they were outnumbered in both bands; and the belief that this must have been done for a reason caused them to go slow about provoking trouble. Doubtless Fred Comstock may have given orders to the faithful few to keep their eyes on the alert and at the first sign of treachery to use their guns freely. That was the sort of reputation he used to have before the widow came into his life, and changed its current; and there were signs that Mr. Comstock might be getting near the point where he would assert his manhood once again, and break away from “petticoat rule.”
The two herds arriving at nearly the same time there was a scene of tremendous excitement around the ranch buildings, with cowboys dashing this way and that, whooping at the top of their voices, and shouting out orders to one another.
Billie wanted to be with them, but that injured knee gave him a nasty wrench now and then; so he concluded to forego that pleasure. He could see that both of his chums were doing as fine work as any one belonging to the Bar-S Ranch; and more than once a fellow whom Billie suspected might be
under the ban would follow the flying form of Adrian with his eyes, as though trying to figure out what difference the coming of the real owner of the ranch might make in the final outcome.
By degrees the cattle were being separated as Mr. Comstock wished, and driven into the separate corrals. During this period of intense excitement those who were not engaged in the work watched operations with more or less interest. Even Charley Moo, the Chinese cook, could be seen leaning on the rail of a corral taking it all in; and there in the doorway of the ranch house stood Mrs. Comstock, apparently laughing scornfully to herself at all this confusion, just because a few of her relatives might be expected to make an evening call on her.
The day was not far from done when the last of the cattle had been chased through the jaws of the big corral, and the bars placed in position that made them prisoners, until such time as the stockman deemed it wise to let them out again. Meanwhile they would have to be fed from the store of hay that was kept on hand in big stacks, over in one of the fields away from the buildings, and intended for just such emergencies as this, or a bitter spell during a wintry blizzard, when forage could not be found by the herds in the sheltered places.
Once more Mr. Comstock was making use of his glasses to look anxiously toward a certain quarter. But now he was not anticipating the coming of the
rustlers, who, upon finding that the stock had slipped through their hands, and were safe in the corrals, were likely to remain aloof until late in the night, when they might with impunity approach close to the ranch, and try some of their sly games looking to effecting a breach in the stockade, and the release of the herds.