"Mornin' before yesterday all was lovely on the lower range," he began, after a preliminary clearing of his throat, an operation that by no means strengthened his weak voice. "We looks the band over and decides that the thunder an' lightnin' of Monday night had caused some strayin'. So we ambles up Crooked Coulee and back through Feather Bed Meadow, roundin' up a couple of dozen.
"We unlimbers at Breakfast Flat," Greetings continued, "and munches a bit of grub, when up comes young Scar Face with word that the damned rustlers are repeatin' on the lower end of the herd. Mr. Fitzrapp and me climbs into the saddle and sets out hotfoot after 'em and meets the two bucks we'd left ridin' herd a-breezin' away from it as if they had pressin' and important business affairs elsewhere. They'd been told to vamoose, they says, by five angry-lookin' whites, and as the said whites had the drop on 'em, they hadn't hesitated any to do no argument."
Greetings paused for a moment to roll one, took a couple of puffs, and then resumed: "By the time we dusts over the divide and get a bird's-eye view of said situation, the blotters had cut out what hawses they wants and were driftin' them, comfortable-like, toward the ford. When they see us real he-men a-comin', two of 'em drops back as if to have a conversation party, and t'other three speeds up the cut-outs. The rear guard opens quite prompt before Fitzrapp and I knows we're within range, and the duet them rifle bullets sung wasn't like the music of weddin' bells by a darned sight, was it, boss?"
"But didn't you return their fire?" demanded MacDonald impatiently.
"Sure we returns their fire!" replied Greetings indignantly. "But much good that done us. They must 'a' had some new-fangled sort of irons—long range cannon. They makes the dust fly all around us, but we couldn't seem to make no impression in their neighborhood. We tries to go closer, and they takes to shootin' as if we was targets. Some shootin' it was, too, bet your life!" His comprehensive gesture took in Fitzrapp's holed sombrero and his own perforated coat sleeve. "We follows them clean into the night and plumb up to the line. But to get to the short of it, when daylight comes, there wasn't a sign of the murderin' devils or of the herd."
"Did the silver stallion show this time?" asked the widow, her manner noncommittal.
"They left the white beast behind this time," said Fitzrapp, a shade of impatience in his voice. "Probably he was tired out from activities elsewhere. But his master wasn't."
"What do you mean?" she asked quickly.
"I'm sure I recognized Childress as one of the two who covered the flight."
Ethel Andress stared at him in amazement. "You were close enough to a horse thief to recognize him, and you let him get away?"