“They were going to brand me—on the back,” the boy muttered.
Over the fellow’s bare, muscular shoulders Buck’s glance swept the trio who had pulled up just outside the bunk-house door. They seemed typical cow-punchers in dress and manner. Two of them were tall and well set up; the third was short and stocky and held a branding iron in one hand. Meeting Stratton’s gaze, he laughed loudly.
“By cripes, Bud! Yuh shore are easy. I thought yuh had more guts than to be scared of an iron that’s hardly had the chill took off.”
He guffawed again, the other two joining in. A flush crept up into the boy’s face, but his lips were firm now, and as he turned to face the others his eyes narrowed slightly.
“If it’s so cold as that mebbe you’d like me to try it on yuh,” he suggested significantly. 38
The short man haw-hawed again, but not quite so boisterously. Buck noticed that he held the branding iron carefully away from his leg.
“I shore wouldn’t hollar like you done ’fore I was touched,” he retorted. “Wal, we got his goat good that time, didn’t we, Butch? Better come in an’ git yore shirt on ’fore the boss sees yuh half naked.”
He turned and disappeared into the bunk-house, followed by the two other punchers. Buck picked up his bundle and glanced at the boy.
“Seems like you’ve got a right sociable, amusing bunch around here,” he drawled.
The youngster’s lips parted impulsively, to close as swiftly over his white teeth.