“Why, ain’t that your brand, Adrian?” gasped Billie, who was not very quick to catch on to things, as a rule.
“Just what it is,” replied the other, between his set teeth.
“Then this steer belonged to the Bar-S herd, didn’t it?” the fat boy continued, gradually approaching the point of full comprehension about as one might circle around and around in a whirlpool, getting nearer the center all the while.
“No doubt of it, Billie,” Donald took the trouble to say.
“And chances were, that whole drove that was stampeded right under your eyes as it were, must a been the Bar-S herd of cattle. Gee whiz! now what d’ye think of that for a warm reception? Must a been a committee appointed to meet up with Adrian Sherwood, and let him know that things were moving lively up here, all right.”
The idea was so vast that Billie seemed to fall into a reflective mood; just as if he needed time to grasp its full significance.
Donald turned to the other chum.
At least he was not in need of further explanations in order to understand just what that strange panic among the cattle stood for.
“It was a stampede with an object ahead of it, Adrian!” he exclaimed, gritting his teeth savagely together as he spoke.
Adrian simply nodded his head. He seemed almost too full for words; but apparently the other understood his feelings, for he went right on, driving in his points very much as a woodchopper might his wedge when splitting a log.