“Waal, sufferin, whipperwills!” boomed the old trapper. “I never seen ye do nothin’ like thet afore, Buffler! Et was some great, et was so. An’ Thunderbolt got enough. He’s sizzlin’ erlong to’rds the open, an’ mighty glad, I opine, ter git erway from sich a jumpin’, rope-throwin’ pair o’ marvels as you an’ Bear Paw.”
“He’s got my rope!” yelled the scout. “Let’s follow him!”
With that, both riders raced around the foot of the hill.
The scout and the trapper were no more than a moment racing around the foot of the hill; but when the trail around the turn was before them, there was not a trace of Red Thunderbolt, and no sign of the man whose wild shout had first claimed the attention of the pards.
“Hyar’s a go!” muttered Nomad, pulling Hide-rack to a halt, and screwing up his face into a puzzled frown. “Whar’d thet steer hike ter, Buffler?”
“He’s made a getaway through some gully,” was the answer. “I reckon there’s no use hunting for him, pard. A steer as knowing as he is can be trusted to keep away from us. That was a good rope of mine,” he added regretfully. “Thunderbolt must have pulled on it like a locomotive to tear it away from the saddle.”
“An’ ther ombray thet we heerd a yellin’,” went on the trapper, “he ain’t eround, nuther. Must be he took ter his heels as soon as Thunderbolt begun payin’ attention ter us.”
“The man was on foot,” said the scout, indicating boot-tracks in the trail. “I don’t blame him for taking to his heels. I’d have done the same, if I’d been in his place. Still, the fellow might crawl out of his crevice and say something to us, I should think. If we hadn’t interfered, the longhorn would have charged him again.”
“Ther feller shot at ther maverick oncet. I heerd the bark of er gun.”
“So did I. But what good is a revolver against Red Thunderbolt? There’s not enough powder back of a revolver bullet to get it through the longhorn’s hide. I’m beginning to understand, now, why Thunderbolt has made such a big impression on the Brazos cattlemen.”