“Jerry Decker! My cousin! That poor old washed-out bronco-forker! Jerry Decker!” Pop shook his head sadly. “Listen, boys—” he looked at them appealingly. “How bad’s he hurt?”
“Pretty bad, I’m afraid, Pop,” Roy said seriously. “Tell you—I’ll go in and telephone to the 8 X 8 for you and find out how he is now.”
“Wish you would, Roy. I wish you would.” Pop appeared dazed by the news. “An’ say—” his eyes flashed—“who done it? Got any idea a-tall?”
“Not any definite one,” Teddy said. “We did find something that might help.” He told about the German gun. “But I never heard of any Germans around here except that family over near Sanborn’s Point. They wouldn’t hurt a fly. Never saw any more law-abiding people.”
“No, it wasn’t them,” Pop agreed. “A German gun, hey! Baby, I hope—” He clenched his fists. Then his mood changed and he glanced at Roy. “Say, would you mind—”
“Right away,” Roy declared. “You wait here.”
The punchers crowded about Teddy as Roy walked toward the house. He answered their questions as best he could, thankful that their minds were somewhat diverted from the idea of leaving immediately by their curiosity over Pop’s cousin.
Supper would be ready in half an hour. Other men drifted toward the bunk-house, tossing saddle blankets under their beds, pouring water into tin basins and removing, somewhat, the traces of their alkalied trade. The talk was subdued, strained, as though each was waiting for the other to say something that remained unsaid. They greeted Teddy heartily, and exchanged a few words with him. Pop, sitting on the top of the three steps that led into the bunk-house, moved his form slightly as each puncher brushed by him and offered an unintelligible grunt to all remarks.
Nick Looker arrived, and, seeing Teddy, thrust an arm about the boy’s shoulders. These two were such friends as one often sees in the West—friendship based, not only on a sincere liking one for the other, but also on an appreciation of the other’s worth. They had been together for six years, ever since Nick, a mere youngster, had thrown his fortunes in with the X Bar X. He was in his early twenties even now. In build he resembled Teddy—rather tall, sinewy, broad of shoulder and narrow of hip. In feature he was what the young cow puncher is supposed to be, but scarcely ever is, high cheek bones, thin nose, deep blue eyes set wide, sensitive mouth, firm chin.
He and Teddy, as they stood there, framed against the reddening evening sky, were a picture to capture the eye of an artist.