Assuredly it was no detail for a boss buster, and O'Hara suffered keenly over the humiliation. His dignity would be weeks recovering, for the other hands would not let him forget it, even after Cuss had returned from the lower range to resume his undignified position.
All his life Dunc O'Hara had been "getting even" with somebody for something or other, and he was now engaged, with the aid of his pipe, in studying out the retaliation which this indignity demanded. At first he was puzzled as to whom he should get even with. Fitzrapp had drawn him into the mess and had not shouldered his full share of the responsibility over the winter's loss. For a time the buster's dark thoughts were directed against the handsome ranch manager. But he was aware of the folly of nose smiting. Fitzrapp had been kind to him in the past, and promised greater benefits for the future. Besides it was the major, the widow's uncle, who had issued the order sending Cuss into his saddle and him—O'Hara—to the milk bottle.
He had definitely decided to get even with the gray bearded veteran when his attention was drawn from various forms of possible requital by the sound of horses loping up the rise from the creek trail. He looked up to see Fitzrapp and Cuss returning, accompanied by Season's Greetings, a misnamed half-breed wrangler who had been riding the ranch limits to search for strays.
Greetings, as was his uproarious habit, covered the last hundred yards at a dead run and dashed into the yard with a "Whoop-la-la!" worthy of his Comanche ancestors on his mother's side of a rather indefinite house.
Knowing what to expect from the breed, Duncan O'Hara was discreet and offered no salutation.
"Well, if here ain't old Mother O'Hara!" cried the wrangler, as though suddenly aware of his presence on the fence. "Am I in time to help with the milkin', ma?"
Darned Cuss was but a moment behind, and his query, though possibly honest, was no less disquieting.
"How are the orphans, Dunc?" he asked, with a serious face, even before he dismounted. "I've been a-worryin' some about that little brindle feller."
"The colts is all right, Darned," said O'Hara sulkily, "though as a truthful gent I've got to admit they been whinnyin' for their regular bottle holder."
Fitzrapp merely nodded to him and went on to the stable with his horse. When he came out a few minutes later O'Hara was still hunched on the fence like a sick crow. The ranch manager went over to him and put a friendly inquiry. O'Hara grunted some unintelligible reply.