“We came to get Powder River, the bronc you rounded up for us,” Hollister said evenly. “Harshaw sent us ahead. We’re sure much obliged to you for yore trouble.”
The larger of the two men by the fire rose and straddled forward. He looked at Dud and he looked at Bob. His face was a map of conflicting emotions.
“Harshaw sent you, did he?”
“Yes, sir. Bob had bad luck in the river an’ the horse got away from him. I reckon the pony was lightin’ out for home when yore rope stopped the journey.” The voice of Dud was cheerful and genial. It ignored any little differences of the past with this hook-nosed individual whose eyes were so sultry and passionate.
“So he sent you two fellows, did he? I’ll say he’s a good picker. I been wantin’ to meet you,” he said harshly.
“Same here, Houck.” Bandy Walker pushed to the front, jerking a forty-five from its scabbard.
Houck’s hand shot forward and caught the cowpuncher by the wrist. “What’s bitin’ you, Bandy? Time enough for that when I give the word.”
The yellow teeth of the bow-legged man showed in a snarl of rage and pain. “I’d ’a’ got Dillon if you’d let me be.”
“Didn’t you hear this guy say Harshaw sent them here? Use yore horse sense, man.” Houck turned to Hollister. “Yore bronc’s with the others. The saddle’s over by that rock. Take ’em an’ hit the trail.”
In sullen rage Houck watched Dud saddle and cinch. Not till the Slash Lazy D riders were ready to go did he speak again.