“God forbid!” said the girl with trembling lips.
CHAPTER XV
THE FLANGE IN RAINBOW CLIFF
It was getting along into August. In every cup and hollow of the Deep Heart hills the forage was deep and plentiful. Cattle, scattered through the broken country, waxed sleek and fat. They had nothing to do but fill their paunches in the sunlit glades and chew their cuds on the shadowed slopes.
Bossick, riding his range one day, came upon Big Basford and Sud Provine ambling down toward the upper reaches of Nameless.
Their horses were tired, giving evidence of hard going, and the cattleman stopped and looked at them with hostile eyes.
“Pretty far off your stamping ground, ain’t you?” he asked.
Provine grinned.
He was a slow-moving individual with a bad black eye and a reputation with the gun that always rode his thigh, though he had been mild enough on Nameless. It was the little wimple of trailing whispers which had come into the country behind him that had put the brand upon him.
“Are so,” he answered insolently, “but hit’s free range land at that, ain’t it?”
“In theory, yes,” said Bossick, “but it’s about time practice changed matters. I’m about fed up on theory—and so are a few others in this man’s country. I’d take it well if you and all your outfit stayed on the south side of Mystery where you belong. Your stock don’t range this far in the Upper Country.”