The buccaroos grinned again. It was reassuring to witness wrath turn upon another.
“You want to hold your jobs?” Drake resumed to them. “You can trust yourselves?”
“Yes, sir,” said Half-past Full.
“But I don't trust you,” stated Drake, genially; and the buccaroos' hopeful eyes dropped. “I'm going to divide you,” pursued the new superintendent. “Split you far and wide among the company's ranches. Stir you in with decenter blood. You'll go to White-horse ranch, just across the line of Nevada,” he said to Half-past Full. “I'm tired of the brothers Drinker. You'll go—let's see—”
Drake paused in his apportionment, and a sleigh came swiftly round the turn, the horse loping and lathery.
“What vas dat shooting I hear joost now?” shouted Max Vogel, before he could arrive. He did not wait for any answer. “Thank the good God!” he exclaimed, at seeing the boy Dean Drake unharmed, standing with a gun. And to their amazement he sped past them, never slacking his horse's lope until he reached the corral. There he tossed the reins to the placid Bolles, and springing out like a surefooted elephant, counted his saddle-horses; for he was a general. Satisfied, he strode back to the crowd by the demijohn. “When dem men get restless,” he explained to Drake at once, “always look out. Somebody might steal a horse.”
The boy closed one gray, confidential eye at his employer. “Just my idea,” said he, “when I counted 'em before breakfast.”
“You liddle r-rascal,” said Max, fondly, “What you shoot at?”
Drake pointed at the demijohn. “It was bigger than those bottles at Nampa,” said he. “Guess you could have hit it yourself.”
Max's great belly shook. He took in the situation. It had a flavor that he liked. He paused to relish it a little more in silence.