Ho’s bawling message was transmitted from bawling mouth to bawling mouth.
“Take the rope at the south stake, and take it damn quick. Are yer goin’ to let the bloody calf wait all the damn day for his brandin’?”
Above the tumult cut the girl’s quiet, incisive words:
“Get on your job! You’re wanted at the south stake.”
“My job? Oh, by Jove, what was it I was to do?”
His hand went vaguely across his eyes. He staggered a few paces across the corral.
“Hold the rope!” squealed Sandy, jumping up and down by the stake. “I gotter keep the fire goin’, and the other fellers has their hands full at the Squeezegate.”
“Hold the bally rope! Oh, yes. Wh-wh-where is the bally thing?”
“Here! Catch him! That’s Jake! There you go, round and round. Keep agoin’. Hold taut there! Don’t let go whatever you do. That calf’s awful strong. If you don’t look out she’ll get away!”
Sandy’s young wrists had been barely strong enough to hold the rope that bound the wretched calf to the stake. Pink Eye, wielding with skill a long lariat that never failed to land upon the horns of the desired calf and bring it to the stake, urged all hands along with profane and impure language. Automatically and with perfect precision, Hootmon was clapping the brand upon one calf after another and passing them along to the “Vet,” who in turn thrust the syringe into the thigh, the prick of the vaccination being dulled in comparison with the fiercer pang of the branding iron. Now the rope had passed from Sandy to Cheerio and there was a pause.