Davitt stepped up, started to speak, reddened, and checked the words. He took the money placed in his hand, and waited. One by one the other Running Dog men stepped up to Buck and received their wages. When it was finished Buck smiled thinly.
“Now, I reckon, you-all can git past the Circle Bar men.”
Nobody moved. Of the eleven men who stood there in the sunlight around the tall figure of Templeton Buck, none budged. Sandy Davitt glanced around, hitched up his belt, and grinned at the rancher. His cast eye gave the grin a baleful aspect.
“Buck,” he said, “I opine we ain’t workin’ for you no more. Is that c’rect?”
“You said it, Sandy.”
“Then, far as I’m concerned, I don’t give a durn about Cervantes. You’ve spoke out to us like a man, Buck, and by thunder I’m stickin’ right here!”
“And me!” chimed in a voice. Then a chorus: “Me, too! We stays here, Buck!”
Buck stood in silence a long moment, his thin, high-boned features flushed darkly. It was a magnificent tribute these men paid him—a tribute of which he was unworthy. To the last one they were men; reckless, scoundrelly if you like, but men unafraid.
“Ain’t none of you ridin’ to town?” asked Buck.
“Nary one, I guess,” Sandy Davitt made response. A growl of assent backed him up.