“I hadn't thought of that,” said Stephen.
“Well,” observed Rogers, “three or four days now will bring us into the valley. Mr. Landray, that's one redskin I'm mighty sorry I put out of business; if I'd been at the same pains to stave off the trouble I was to fetch it to a head, or if I'd sort of nursed it along until we got to the other side of this two-wife country, it might have saved us a heap of bother.”
Early the following morning Rogers was roused by Stephen, and as he came to consciousness he felt Stephen's hand on his shoulder.
“Turn out, Rogers,” said Landray. “One of the mules has broken its rope and strayed.”
The Californian crawled sleepily from among his blankets.
“What do you say—the mules—”
“The piebald's slipped her picket rope.”
“Dam her pepper and salt hide anyhow!” said Rogers, now wide awake. “I bet I rope her to-night so she don't get loose.”
“She can't have gone far for she was here when Bingham relieved me three hours after midnight.”
It was then just dawn.