"But I warned you not——" she began.
Childress ignored her frown. "Let's see what we have here. Perhaps the committee of two from the Open A can help along your work of mercy."
Evidently the cow had gone into the quicksand bog to drink, burdened herself with several gallons of water and found her feet fast in the grip of the sand. She was well down and thoroughly frightened, the suction holding the feet as if in a vise. The girl had her rope about the beast's horns, with the other end attached to saddle horn. She was attempting salvage by a straight-pull method, but so far with nothing more in the way of success than bellows of pain from the bogged one.
"She's in a bad way," said the sergeant with experience as his authority. "I'll have to go in after the beast."
He dismounted, dropping rein on Silver. Squatting on the solid prairie that edged the bog, he unlaced his boots and rolled his trousers above his knees. This last process was applied to the sleeves of his flannel shirt.
"I don't suppose you carry a shovel," he remarked. "All bog-riders should."
"I'm not a bog-rider," she flared. "I was out gunning for horse thieves and happened on this poor critter. She happens to wear my own personal and private brand—Circle G—but I'd have tried to save her even had she worn an Open A."
Childress shrugged competent shoulders. "So, Flame of Fire Weed is also humane," he remarked, offering her again that whimsical smile that invited her own lips even as she resented the assurance of it.
"Did you imagine for a moment I wasn't human?" she demanded indignantly.
"I merely remarked your humaneness," he said to set himself right with her, and he started to wade into the bog.