“We’ll have ter look out for them hawsses o’ our’n a-whinnyin’, too,” said Gallagher anxiously. “That’s what I’m scared of.”
A slow, dreary hour passed. Ellis arose stiffly, and stretched himself.
“I’m gettin’ tired o’ settin’ here,” he whispered to the other. “I’m a-goin’ out to th’ edge o’ th’ brush. If either o’ them hawsses starts in, yu’ cut th’ wind off’n him quick.” And he stole away noiselessly.
He was barely away ten minutes before he came gliding back.
“Here comes somebody,” he whispered. “Along from th’ sou’west angle, as I figured, too. Guess it’s them, all right. If ’tis, I reckon I’ll have to jump somethin’ hot off’n th’ brain ’bout gettin’ ’em.”
With all their faculties on the stretch, they held their breaths and listened intently. Soon their eager ears caught the sound of approaching horses and the faint creak of leather. Straining their eyes in the gloom, they presently made out the forms of two riders slowly and cautiously traversing the cleared strip that lay between the fence and the line of brush.
Reaching the gate they halted, but making no attempt, as yet, to dismount or open it, remained lolling on their horses and talking in low tones.
“Waitin’ for Shorty,” whispered Ellis to Gallagher who, smothering a chuckle, whispered back: “Some wait!”
Even in that dim light they could see that one of the riders loomed up a big, bulky shape, in contrast to his slighter-appearing companion.
“That’s Big George, all right,” murmured the rancher into Benton’s ear as a low, deep bass undertone rumbled to them. “Listen ter that voice o’ his!”