“That was a wonderful thing to do for Bart,” she said. “Oh, Don! Don’t you suppose he’ll stay there and keep it?”
“Sure, Honey,” Carver assured her. “You can’t clamp down on a range colt too sudden and put him on the picket. We’ll keep an eye on him and gradually decrease his range. Don’t you fret about Bart.”
He was peering off across the country and she followed the direction of his gaze. A wagon had just crawled into view on the ridge on the far side of Bart’s filing and near the upper edge of it. The last rays of the setting sun caught the tattered canvas top. Even at a distance of three quarters of a mile both Carver and the girl recognized the outfit as old Judd Armstrong’s, the horses moving slowly, their heads drooping dejectedly.
“You wait here, Molly,” Carver said. “I’ll ride over and help them pick a good place to camp. Then we’ll stir up a bite for the boys to eat.”
He intercepted the outfit as it pulled into the bottoms. The little old lady still clasped the staff of her flag.
“Staked your piece yet, Uncle?” Carver greeted.
“Not yet,” said old Judd. “We’ll likely locate one to-morrow. These horses is about played out and we’ll have to make camp here, I reckon.”
The woman nodded serene agreement. Ever since she could remember they had been making camp.
“Maybe they can make one more drag of it over this next rise,” Carver said. “It’s not much of a pull. There’s a nice little creek over across and a ripping good piece of ground that hasn’t been staked. They all run clear on acrost it and never noticed. It’s the next piece up the creek from mine.”
He uncoiled his rope and made it fast to the wagon tongue, took a short snub on his saddle horn and pulled in ahead of Judd’s weary team. The horse buckled sturdily to his task and they made the crossing.