For two hours they rode across the sunken range where the cottonwoods and aspens made a lovely and mottled shade, to reach at last the sharp ascent to the uplands above. When they topped the rim and started forward, the huge herds of Courtrey lay spread before them, bright as paint on the living green. Two thousand cattle grazed there in peace and plenty. Here and there a rider sat his horse in idleness. At the first sight of the solidly formed mass coming out of the Cup Rim on to the levels, these riders straightened in their saddles and rode in closer to their charges.
The eyes of the newcomers went over the bright pattern of the grazing cattle. A motley bunch they were, red, black and white, with here and there descendants of the yellows which none but John Dement had ever owned in Lost Valley. Dement, riding near the head of the line saw this and muttered in his beard.
“Thar’s some o’ mine,” he said pointing, “th’ very ones that was stampeded. I’d know ’em in hell.”
SHE TALKED WITH CONFORD WHO RODE BESIDE HER AND NOW AND THEN SHE SMILED
With the nearing of the line of horsemen a rider detached himself from the right of the herd 105 and went sailing away across the levels toward the distant Stronghold.
Quick as a flash Tharon Last lifted the rifle that lay ready on her pommel and sent a shot whining toward him.
“Just to show we mean business,” she muttered to herself.
The cowboy caught the warning and drew his running horse up to slide ten feet on its haunches.