The leaders of the column quickened their pace, so that they might leave the lowlands as quickly as possible. Pop, like most old ranchmen, had his pet superstitions, and one of them was that it was unlucky to stay long in such a place.
“Things happen,” he declared vaguely. “The mountains are all right—don’t care how high they are. Open range is all right. But every time I ride through land that sets low, I get a feelin’ that somethin’ is goin’ to turn up. Don’t know why, but I do.”
“Ever hear that dampness was bad for rheumatism?” Teddy chuckled. “That might have something to do with it, Pop.”
“No sir,” and Pop shook his head obstinately. “It’s got nothin’ to do with rheumatism. Even Nat Raymond’s pony knows what I mean. Look at the way he’s actin’.”
In truth, the bronco Nat rode, which had come from the home ranch with him, was acting queerly. The pony would come to a dead stop, lift its head, whinny, and proceed. This performance was repeated several times.
Mr. Manley observed the horse with interest.
“What makes him do that, Nat?” he asked. “You pullin’ him up?”
“Not any, boss.” Nat answered sincerely. “He’s doin’ it himself. Like Pop said, I guess, he don’t like lowlands.”
“Seems to me as though he sensed a stranger around,” Teddy said to Roy in a low tone. “I’ve seen Nat’s bronco do that before, when a new man came into the yard of the X Bar X. It’s got nothing to do with the place we’re in now.”
“Well, there’s enough men with us he never saw before,” Roy countered. He motioned toward Jake Trummer and his followers. “Think they’re the reason, Teddy?”