"If you was to drive that blunder colt up to horse-heaven and he knew it was horse-heaven, you'd have to turn him around and back him in. Then I reckon he'd bust the corral tryin' to get out again."
Collie grinned. "Well, I wouldn't this morning—if there was anything to eat there, even hay."
"Well, you don't get your breakfast at the chuck-house this morning," said Williams gruffly.
"I don't, eh? Since when?"
Williams again turned in his saddle, observing Collie for a minute before he spoke. "I see you're smilin', so I'll tell you. Since when? Well, since about two hours ago, when Miss Louise come steppin' over to the bunk-house and asks where you are. Billy Dime ups and tells her you was sick-nursin' the blunder colt. She didn't smile, but turned to me and asked me. I told her about what was doin'. I seen she had it in for somebody. It was me. 'Brand,' she says, quiet-like, 'is it customary on the Moonstone for lunch or dinner to be taken to the men that are staying out from camp?'
"'Yes, ma'am,' says I.
"And the plumb hell of it was," continued Williams, "she didn't say another word. I wisht she had. I feel like a little less than nothin' shot full of holes this lovely mornin'."
Collie rode on silently.
"Why don't you say somethin'?" queried Williams.
"I was waiting for the rest of it," said Collie.