“There’s somethin’ wrong, Sleepy, and it feels like it might be wool versus hides. Anyway, it ain’t none of our business, bein’ as we’re just a pair of train chasers and ain’t got no interest in either side.”
“I hope the cattlemen knock —— out of ’em,” declared Sleepy.
“Same here. What’s this ahead of us?”
They slowed their horses to a walk. Ahead of them, crossing the road, was a herd of cattle. They were traveling at a fairly good rate of speed, heading toward the river. From the bulk of them Hashknife estimated that there must be at least a hundred head.
A rider came surging down through the sagebrush, silhouetted dimly against the sky, as he urged them on with a swinging rope. The cattle cleared the road, and the circling rider almost ran into them, possibly thinking that these other two objects were straggling cows.
“Runnin’ ’em early, ain’t yuh?” called Hashknife.
For a moment the rider jerked to a standstill, and Hashknife’s answer came in the form of a streak of fire, the zip of a bullet and the echoing “wham!” of a revolver. He had fired at not over fifty feet, but his bullet went over their heads.
Then he whirled his horse and went down the slope, swinging more to the east, before either of them realized that he had shot at them and escaped. The cattle were bawling, as they scattered down through the brush, evidently thinking that this loud noise was part of things designed to keep them moving.
“Well, can yuh beat that?” exclaimed Hashknife. “Shot right at us. Ain’t this a queer country, cowboy?”
“I’ll betcha that’s a bunch of rustlers!” declared Sleepy excitedly.