Bob’s face was buried in his hands. The slender body of the boy was shaken with sobs.
“I—I—”
“Cut out the weeps, Miss Roberta,” snapped Hollister. “What in Mexico ’s eatin’ you anyhow?”
“I—I’ve had a horrible night.”
“Don’t I know it? Do you reckon it was a picnic for me?”
“You—laughed an’ cut up.”
“Some one had to throw a bluff. If they’d guessed we were scared stiff them b’iled Utes sure enough would have massacreed us. You got to learn to keep yore grin workin’, fellow.”
“I know, but—” Bob stopped. Dry sobs were still shaking him.
“Quit that,” Dud commanded. “I’ll be darned if I’ll stand for it. You shut off the waterworks or I’ll whale you proper.”
He walked out to look at the horses. It had suddenly occurred to him that perhaps their guests might have found and taken them. The broncos were still grazing in the draw where he had left them the previous night.