“Who? Him?” answered my neighbor. “Oh, his name’s Mullins. They say he used to be able to ride anything with hair on it, and throw off the bridle at that. I expect that’s just talk. Don’t you reckon?”
IV
THE OUTLAW
Steve was recounting an episode of Hell’s Acre.
“And jist as I was fighting my horse to make him go through that scrub-oak, he done stubbed his toe in the sand. Up she come with a whoof--one of them ol’ long-horns. That cow had hid herself there. Yes, sir; but she didn’t quite git her horns covered.”
Reb said he could well believe it. No longer ago than last Tuesday, while chasing some stubborn cattle, he had chanced upon a cow lying flat behind a bush. A jackrabbit was burying her under leaves, for better concealment.
Whereupon the two got to horse and rode away, leaving behind them a thoughtful silence.
There was a water-gap to be repaired and they headed for the Salt Fork of the Brazos.
“Wait a minute,” said Steve. “Look there.”
A cow stood on the crest of a rise--a lean, dun creature, with distended eyes. When they approached, she trotted off to the right, mumbling anxiously. They did not follow. Then she stopped, her head erect and nostrils dilated, to watch them. The two ambled forward and she kept near, very, very anxious.
“She’s got a calf hid out somewheres,” Reb remarked.