Such an idea, too, it seemed, was in the thought of the ranch owner, for he was slightly pale underneath his coat of tan as he spurred his steed forward.
A number of other cowboys had seen the happening, and those who could leave the work in which they were engaged, started for the scene of the accident. But there were some, holding down a refractory steer, or engaged in putting on the hot branding irons, who only looked over, shrugged their shoulders, and kept on with their tasks.
For that, too, was the law of the range. If a man had a fall, he was either killed or he was not killed. If he was killed there was no use dropping important work to go to his aid. If he was not killed he must either help himself, or take such help as could be sent to him at the time.
Cruel, perhaps you will say, but it was eminently practical, and, after all, that is life.
If Dave was really dead no power the cowboys could exert would save him. The accident had happened—it was over with—and that was all there was to it.
Of course some did go to his aid—Mr. Carson and several of the less busy punchers. And, to do justice to the others, not a man but, would have rushed to help Dave had he been in a position to do so. But the work of the ranch must go on—and it did.
Long before Mr. Carson reached the scene, or, for that matter, before any of the others were in a position to help Dave, a movement was observed in the tangle of pony, rider and steer. Just who, or which, was doing the moving it was hard to determine, as the haze of dust still overhung everything.
"Can a person live after that mix-up?" asked Mr. Bellmore, speaking aloud, unconsciously.
"Oh, him plenty mluch alive!" glibly replied the Chinese cook. "Dave he plenty mluch hab fall, an' he come up smilin'."
"Oh, he does; eh?" asked the Chicago man.