Easily the pinto cantered round the herd, gradually edging the Holsteins toward the bars, the young bull going quietly enough with them. It was very easily accomplished, and after half an hour’s cutting out the straying cattle, bull and all, were within their own “policies,” as the Colonel said.
“Hadn’t we better run young Braeside into the bull field while we are here?” suggested the Colonel. “I don’t like him wandering off all over the place.”
“All right, Uncle Colonel, I’ll just cut him out,” replied Paul, proud of his cowboy attainments.
But the bull had a mind of his own, and with a bellow and flourish of heels was away in a wild race toward the stables and corrals, Paul dashing madly at his heels. The race brought up at the cattle corral, into which Paul steered the surprised and winded animal, where he was made safe for the time being.
“Now, young fellow, you can stay there for a bit,” said the boy triumphantly, swinging his pony into a lope in the direction of the bungalow. A hundred yards, and the boy jerked his pony to his haunches and sat rigid, breathless, listening. Out of the bush rode the Colonel.
“You’ve got him, Paul,” he cried, catching sight of the boy.
But, heedless of him, Paul sat his pony as if turned into stone. From the bungalow came a rushing flood of weird harmonies. A look of uncertainty, almost of terror, was on the boy’s face.
“What’s that—who’s that?” he whispered. “It’s like——Is it my Daddy? Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” His voice rang out in a shrill, quavering cry. He shook the pinto into a gallop, flung himself headlong from the saddle and disappeared within the bungalow.
The Colonel waited, listening, fearful. There was the crashing of an unearthly chord, then silence.
“Well!” ejaculated the Colonel. “They don’t need me just at present.” He rode up quietly toward the bungalow, dismounted, tied his horse and, pulling out his pipe, threw himself down upon the grass near the door and waited. He finished his second pipeful, then, mounting his horse, he rode quietly homeward.