Bob remembered his mount. “Powder River got away from me—in the water.” He said it apologetically.
“I’m not blamin’ you for that,” the boss said, and laid a kindly hand on Dillon’s shoulder.
“Was it drowned?”
“I reckon we’ll find that out later. Lucky you wasn’t. That’s a heap more important.”
Bob was riding behind Dud fifteen minutes later in the wake of the herd. Hawks had gone back to learn what had become of Powder River.
Supper was ready when Buck reached camp. He was just in time to hear the cook’s “Come an’ get it.” He reported to Harshaw.
“Horse got outa the river about a mile below the island. I scouted around some for it, but couldn’t trail in the dark.”
“All right, Buck. To-morrow Dud and Bob can ride back and get the bronc. We’ll loaf along the trail and make a short day of it.”
He sat down on his heels, reached for a tin plate and cup, and began one of the important duties of the day.