“Pass me that rope, Lefty,” he directed. “Then you can untie him.”
The frightened steer arose to his feet with a snort. He eyed his tormentors for a moment and then bolted. Alkali’s horse braced and Catapult was brought up sharply.
“He’ll soon wear out them gunnysacks at this rate,” Lefty lamented. “We’ve got to quiet him down.”
“Get a rope on him too if you can,” Alkali advised. “Move up ahead. I’ll stay behind. Then when he makes a pass at you, I’ll hold him, and when he lays back you yank him right along with you.”
Lefty’s rope swished through the air and settled neatly over Catapult’s thick neck. Then riding ahead, with Alkali’s rope leading to the rear, the two cowboys began their task of leading Catapult from the meadow.
Connie found it hard to control her laughter. The steer presented such a ludicrous spectacle even in the uncertain moonlight, thumbing along the trail shod in gunnysacks. At times he would stop as if trying to fathom the strange method of torment. Then Lefty’s rope would become taut and pull him along. Again he would take a lunge forward in a brave effort to escape but Alkali’s rope would stiffen and bring him up short.
They emerged from the mountain meadow and turned to the main road. Connie breathed a sigh of relief.
And just at that moment Catapult stopped and whiffed the night air. Then he gave voice to the loudest and longest bellow in his system.
“If Pop hears that we’re sunk,” groaned Lefty.
A light flickered in the ranch house.