“Looks like your prayers were answered, Y.D.,” said Transley. “I bet they haven’t a plow nearer than the ranch.”
Y.D. seemed fascinated by the sight. He could not take his eyes off it. He drew a cigar from his pocket and thrust it far into his mouth, chewing it savagely and rolling it in his lips, but, according to the law of the hayfield, refraining from lighting it. At first there was a gleam of vengeance in his eyes, but presently that gave way to a sort of horror. Every honorable tradition of the range demanded that he enlist his force against the common enemy.
“Hell, Transley!” he ejaculated, “we can’t sit and look at that! Order the men out! What have we got to fight with?”
For answer Transley swung round in his saddle and struck his palm into Y.D.‘s.
“Good boy, Y.D!” he said. “I did you an injustice—I mean, about your prayers being answered. We haven’t as much as a plow, either, but we can gallop down with some barrels in a wagon and put a sack brigade to work. I’m afraid it won’t save Landson’s hay, but it will show where our hearts are.”
Transley and Y.D. galloped off to round up the men, some of whom had already noticed the fire. Transley despatched four men and two teams to take barrels, sacks, and horse blankets to the Landson meadows. The others he sent off at once on horseback to give what help they could.
Zen rode up just as they left, and already her fine horse seemed to realize the tension in the air. His keen, hard-strung muscles quivered as she brought his gallop to a stop.
“How did it start, Dad?” she demanded.
“How do I know?” he returned, shortly. “D’ye think I fired it?”
“No, but I just asked the question that Landson will ask, so you better have your answer handy. I’m going to gallop down to their ranch; perhaps I can help Mrs. Landson.”