Of all this commotion the railroad men saw only the outward indications. As the excitement grew on both sides there was perhaps a little more of display in the way the cattle were run in, especially when some long-lost bunch was brought to light and welcomed with yells from the centre. A steer was killed at noon, everybody fed, and the line moved forward. The wind, which had slept in the sunshine of the morning, rose in the afternoon, and the dust whirled in little clouds where men or animals moved. From the centre two men had gone back with the cattle gathered up to that time, and Bill Dancing, with Smith, Stormy Gorman, and two of the cowboys, were heading a draw to cross to the north side of the Cache, when three men rode out into the road five hundred yards ahead, and halted.
Whispering Smith spoke: “There come our men; stop here. This ground in front of us looks good to me; they may have chosen something over there that suits them better. Feel your guns and we’ll start forward slowly; don’t take your eyes off the bunch, whatever you do. Bill, you go back 297 and help the men with the cattle; there will be four of us against three then.”
“Not for mine!” said Bill Dancing bluntly. “You may need help from an old fool yet. I’ll see you through this and look after the cattle afterward.”
“Then, Stormy, one or two of you go back,” urged Whispering Smith, speaking to the cowboy foreman without turning his eyes. “There’s no need of five of us in this.”
But Stormy swore violently. “You go back yourself,” exclaimed Stormy, when he could control his feelings. “We’ll bring them fellows in for you in ten minutes with their hands in the air.”
“I know you would; I know it. But I’m paid for this sort of thing and you are not, and I advise no man to take unnecessary chances. If you all want to stay, why, stay; but don’t ride ahead of the line, and let me do all the talking. See that your guns are loose––you’ll never have but one chance to pull, and don’t pull till you’re ready. The albino is riding in the middle now, isn’t he? And a little back, playing for a quick drop. Watch him. Who is that on the right? Can it be George Seagrue? Well, this is a bunch. And I guess Karg is with them.”
Holding their horses to a slow walk, the two 298 parties gingerly approached each other. When the Cache riders halted the railroad riders halted; and when the three rode the five rode: but the three rode with absolute alignment and acted as one, while Whispering Smith had trouble in holding his men back until the two lines were fifty feet apart.
By this time the youngest of the cowboys had steadied and was thinking hard. Whispering Smith halted. In perfect order and sitting their horses as if they were riding parade, the horses ambling at a snail’s pace, the Cache riders advanced in the sunshine like one man. When Du Sang and his companions reined up, less than twelve feet separated the two lines.
In his tan shirt, Du Sang, with his yellow hair, his white eyelashes, and his narrow face, was the least impressive of the three men. The Norwegian, Seagrue, rode on the right, his florid blood showing under the tan on his neck and arms. He spoke to the cowboys from the ranch, and on the left the young fellow Karg, with the broken nose, black-eyed and alert, looked the men over in front of him and nodded to Dancing. Du Sang and his companions wore short-armed shirts; rifles were slung at their pommels, and revolvers stuck in their hip-scabbards. Whispering Smith, in his dusty suit of khaki, was the only man in either line who 299 showed no revolver, but a hammerless or muley Savage rifle hung beside his pommel.
Du Sang, blinking, spoke first: “Which of you fellows is heading this round-up?”