“Same hyar.”
Nomad lifted himself in his stirrups and made a trumpet of his hands; then he yelled for the missing man who had faced the steer on foot, and fired the revolver.
No answer was returned.
“Don’t bother, Nick,” said the scout. “The fellow couldn’t have been hurt very much, seeing that he was able to use his legs and get away. We’ll ride on to Hackamore.”
The pards thereupon continued their journey in the direction of town.
The coming interview with Bloom was delicate business. Diplomacy would be necessary—diplomacy, backed by nerve.
As peacemaker, however, the scout felt that a truce must be patched up with Bloom.
Nate Dunbar was in Hackamore, hiring cowboys and buying supplies for the ranch. He had gone on this errand once before, only to be interrupted by a plot of Benner’s that had well-nigh turned out disastrously.
“How ye goin’ erbout et ter tork with Bloom?” asked Old Nomad, as he and the scout galloped onward, stirrup to stirrup.
“We’ve got to handle him with gloves, I reckon,” answered the scout.