“Oh, don’t worry,” said his chum, with sarcasm. “We can’t starve when buffaloes roam the plains as plentifully as they do. We’ll soon be able to rope a buffalo calf, eh?”
“No, there’s no need of that,” said Chet calmly. “We’ve got your maverick to feed on. When are you going to butcher him, Dig?”
“I guess not!” cried Dig indignantly. “He’s a pet. See! he knows me now.”
He was just then approaching the yearling to unfasten the lariat. The little brute waited, with lowered head, watching Dig with what Chet was sure was a malevolent eye.
Dig stooped to untangle the rope, turning rearward to the captured calf. As though he had been waiting for the chance, the calf blatted and charged. The impact of his forehead against the seat of Dig’s pants was tremendous.
“Waugh! Take him off! Help!” roared Dig, after performing a complete somersault. Chet absolutely could not help him. The maverick leaped about his prostrate captor, stiff-legged. The rope became wound around Dig’s ankle and then, when he tried to get to his feet, he could not do so.
“Stop your laughing!” he called to his chum, “and come to help a fellow. He’s going to bat me again!”
“What do you want—a gun?” sputtered Chet. “That calf is just as dangerous as a tiger.” But he helped his chum out of his predicament, though continuing to make remarks regarding the maverick and its troubled owner.
“So you call this a pet, do you? I’d just as soon pet a Kansas cyclone. Whoa, boy! Easy! My goodness, Dig! he pulls like a bull elk. There’s something wrong with this maverick. He’s crossed with a traction engine, I know.”
“Oh, you behave!” complained Digby. “Why pick upon the innocent little thing? I believe you’ve been tantalizing him when my back was turned. That’s why he acts in such an ornery fashion.”