"Round-ups are bad things for Dave," thought he. "Mother'd be sorry."
There was a great noise from the saloon on the corner. Pretty soon Dave came out. He looked very white as he came to the place where the boy waited. Dave leaned against Rix, and groaned.
"What's the matter?" asked Sid in alarm.
"It's my arm," said Dave, growing whiter. "There was a fight—in that place—somehow. They knocked against me. I fell. One man fell on top of me and my arm was sort of doubled up under me. It hurts—awful. I don't know whether it's sprained—or broken—or—"
They had to stay in town a week before they could go back to the ranch.
When they went back Dave had his arm in a sling.
"It's a good thing the twenty-three tons of hay are in," said Sid.
"You couldn't do much with that arm."
Dave did not say anything.
Next Sunday night Sid sat in the door of the shanty on the ranch. He was singing to himself a little. "Safely through another week," he hummed. His mother always sang that Sundays at home. Sid was a bit homesick Sundays in the hills.
Dave came and sat down by Sid, and looked out at the sunset and the dry river away down in the valley. Rix came trotting up near the shanty.
"He's a smart colt—ain't he?" said Sid. "He hasn't been bothered with
fox-tail since that day you'n and I took that piece out of his eye.
He's kept his eyes away from the stuff, whether he's meant to or not.
Do you suppose he has as much sense as that?"