“I could a-showed you sheep—” resumed the man, but I was attending to Scipio.
“He don’t know anything,” said Scipio, “nor any of ’em in there. But we haven’t got this country rounded up yet. He’s just come out of a week of snake fits, and, by the way it looks, he’ll enter on another about to-morrow morning. But whiskey can’t stop him lying.”
“Bad weather,” said the man, watching us make ready to continue our long drive. “Lots o’ lightning loose in the air right now. Kind o’ weather you’re liable to see fire on the horns of the stock some night.”
This sounded like such a promising invention that I encouraged him. “We have nothing like that in the East.”
“H’m. Guess you’ve not. Guess you never seen sixteen thousand steers with a light at the end of every horn in the herd.”
“Are they going to catch that man?” inquired Scipio, pointing to the yellow poster.
“Catch him? Them? No! But I could tell ’em where he’s went. He’s went to Idaho.”
“Thought the ’76 outfit had sold Auctioneer,” Scipio continued conversationally.
“That stallion? No! But I could tell ’em they’d ought to.” This was his good-by to us; he removed himself and his alcoholic omniscience into the house.
“Wait,” I said to Scipio, as he got in and took the reins from me. “I’m going to deal some magic to you. Look at that poster. No, not the stallion, the yellow one. Keep looking at it hard.” While he obeyed me I made solemn passes with my hands over his head. I kept it up, and the boy sat on the corral bars, watching stupidly. “Now look anywhere you please.”