Band of five, well mounted, have just crossed the ford. Seem to be making for the two-year-olds. Unquestionably the old rustling outfit. Season's Greetings and I are going after them and won't spare lead. Promise our best to land them this time. My love to you, Ethel.
This disturbing missive had been brought to the ranch house the evening before by an Indian boy who declared that he had been riding hard since early afternoon, to the truth of which statement the drooping ears, limp tail and hard breathing of his pony bore mute evidence. The messenger had been unable or unwilling to add any details, except that the white bosses, one of whom was Fitzrapp, had made smoke riding toward the invaders.
"If Tom was so desperately anxious to land the rustlers, he might have left off the last five words," remarked the widow.
Her uncle looked his disapproval. "You're peeved again with poor Fitz? Seems to me you're pretty hard on him lately, considering all his devotion." And then the handsome old pioneer turned away to enjoy a smile. He had lived his loves in his day and knew the price that must be paid by a mere male with aspiration, ambition, and a pain in his heart.
"There is a time for everything, uncle," was her return. "I'll give him the high sign when—if ever—I'm ready to hear further on that love-to-Ethel subject."
Uncle Ivan was too wrought up over the news of a new raid upon his fair relative's stock for his mind to be troubled long over the widow's capriciousness. A menacing look came into his eyes as they followed the creek trail to the south.
"Isn't it just my confounded luck to be laid up here in a rocking-chair when those mangy coyotes get busy again?" He spoke this ferociously. "If I hadn't been so plumb stubborn against 'squeezing Lizzie,' I'd have ridden that bronc."
The week before he had gone to Corn Cob Basin to look over the band of yearlings which had been wintered there under hired herders from the Indian reservation. He had become disgusted at their clumsy efforts to break an "outlaw," and, forgetting his years, had taken the beast in hand. Ethel knew his horror of "pulling leather," which is range argot for seizing any part of the saddle. From his remark about "squeezing Lizzie," she understood that he might have saved himself a fall and the sprained knee which at present disabled him by laying hold on the saddle horn.
She had a tolerant smile for his equestrian vanity, and replied sympathetically: "Anyway, you defended your faith once more, and that's something! The boys ought to give a good account of themselves in this brush. They seem to have had warning enough."
"If they'll only shoot!" exclaimed the major.