“I’m goin’ right up there, anyway,” he declared. “An’ I’ll shoot his vitals to coyote feed, but I’ll get them beasties back.”
Molly realised the danger-signal.
“I shouldn’t,” she said. “Let’s get so sure there can’t be a mistake.”
“I tell you I’m goin’.” The man’s hasty anger was stirring again. “An’ I’m goin’ farther. We’ve sat around a deal too long. I’m goin’ all through this territory. Ther’s folk gettin’ around, like that boy, McFardell. An’ we got to know jest how things are. We can’t stand fer neighbours acting queer. With boys raising stock out of cows they ain’t got, an’ throw-outs from the Police squattin’ on the land under pretence of raising a farm, an’ spendin’ most of his time bucking the game, an’ shooting craps in Hartspool, we need to keep tab of things with a brace of guns in our belts. I surely am goin’ right up to that Irishman’s layout right away.”
Molly reached out and laid a pacifying hand on the old ruffian’s shoulder.
“No, don’t you do it, Lightning,” she said almost pleadingly. “I know just how you’re feeling. And, in a way, I surely feel the same. But let’s take another day. Then I’ll be right with you in anything you do. I’ll take my pony and chase up the creeks to-morrow. I’ll peek around, and I won’t leave a blade of sweet grass unturned. You stop right here till I get back, and after that, if I haven’t located those cows—why, we’ll just get right after the Police in Calford.”
“You’re givin’ him time, gal, an’ I don’t like it,” Lightning protested. “He’ll get nigh three days to hide up them beasties in the hills. That ain’t my way. Git right after ’em quick. Guns is the only thing fer hoss thieves.”
“Sure it is. All the time,” Molly agreed, her eyes twinkling. “But let me have it my way this time. It makes me feel real bad suspecting folk—till——”
A wide grin spread over the choreman’s gaunt features.
“That’s it, gal,” he cried, slapping the table in sudden glee. “What did I say? You’d hate to think bad of a jack-rabbit. Sure. We’ll act your way—to-morrow. After that—my way.”