“A pretty bunch,” observed Arizona.
“Yes, and a pretty place for a raid.”
At that moment the doings of the raiders were uppermost in Tresler’s mind.
Then they proceeded to take possession. They found Jim Henderson, a mean looking Breed boy, in the shack, and promptly set him to work to clean it out. It was not a bad place, but the boys had let it get into a filthy condition, in the customary manner of all half-breeds. However, this they quickly remedied, and Tresler saw quite a decent prospect of comfort for their stay there.
Arizona said very little while there was work to be done. And his companion was astonished, even though he knew him so well, at his capacity and forethought. Evening was the most important time, and here the cattleman stood out a master of his craft. The beeves had to be corralled every night. There must be no chance of straying, since they were sold, and liable for transport at any moment. This work, and the task of counting, demanded all the cattleman’s skill. Bands of fifty were rounded up, cut out from the rest, and quietly brought in. When each corral was filled, and the whole herd accommodated for the night, a supply of fresh young hay was thrown to them to keep them occupied during their few remaining hours of waking. Arizona was a giant at the work; and to see his lithe, lean body swaying this way and that, as he swung his well-trained pony around the ambling herd, his arms and “rope” and voice at work, was to understand something of the wild life that claimed him, and the wild, untrained nature which was his.
The last corral was fastened up, and then, but not until then, the two friends took leisure.
“Wal,” said Arizona, as they stood leaning against the bars of the biggest corral, “guess ther’s goin’ to be a night-guard?”
“Yes. These boys are smart enough lads, it seems. We’ll let them take two hours about up to midnight You and I will do the rest.”
“An’ the hull lot of us’ll sleep round the corrals?”
“That’s it.”