Twirl a nasty ten-foot loop
And curry out my red mane with a cactus.”
When they had covered some ten miles Molly noted that the brilliant specks were forging steadily forward through the scattered ranks of their more somberly clad fellows and gradually attaining the very fore fringe of the run. Another two miles and the bright dots were out in the lead and it was apparent that many were converging upon the line which Carver followed toward a distant dip in the landscape. Every cowhand was up on a horse that had proved its speed and endurance in many a hard round-up circle. The clatter and crash of vehicles had died out behind. Carver glanced both ways along the line.
“The boys are drawing in toward the Cabin Creek bottoms,” he called to Molly. “Best land in the Strip. There’ll be many a friend of mine in the lot. Here’s hoping they stake near the old home ranch.”
He glanced along the scattered line again as they rode across a low wave of the prairie and the broad bottoms of Cabin Creek opened out below them, spared by the fire and carpeted with grass that was only now turning brown.
“Now!” he said. “Run for it!” and they let their horses out and raced down the gentle pitch.
Carver kept his eye on the low point of a ridge that thrust its nose into the edge of the valley three miles below. Just beyond that shoulder the Curl Fork of Cabin Creek joined in and the buildings of the Half Diamond H nestled under the hill. Below that point the bottoms widened out to twice the width of the part they now traversed. More than thirty riders were strung out across the level floor of the valley, careening down both sides of the creek.
Some dropped from the saddle and drove their flags, but a dozen or more on Carver’s side of the creek held straight on. This last spurt was a contest between seasoned riders and tried horses. Carver urged his mount and the animal drew on his last reserve of speed. Molly felt the smooth play of powerful muscle sweeping her on toward the goal as her own horse, fresher from having carried less weight over the long miles, ran nose to nose with Carver’s. Bart was twenty feet to their left and as far in the rear.
As they thundered down upon a tiny spring-creek flowing on the near side of the shoulder Carver waved a hand.
“Up there!” he shouted to Bart. “Flag it!”