“ ’Lo, Sam—Brad! How’s every little thing?”
“Fine. Missie done fixed my game laig up with that ointment good as new. I want to tell you-all that girl is a wiz,” bragged Yerby, firing his tobacco juice at a white rock and making a centre shot.
McCoy breathed freer. Yerby and Rogers could be depended upon to go through the ordeal before them with cool imperturbability. Cole, under fire, would be as steady as a rock. Falkner and Silcott were just now nervous as high-bred colts, but Rowan felt that this was merely the reaction from the shock of the night. When the test came they would face the music all right.
Late in the afternoon the bawling of thirsty cattle gave notice that the gathered stock were nearing camp. Not until the stars were out was there a moment’s rest for anybody.
Supper was eaten by the light of the moon. During this meal a horseman rode up and nodded a greeting.
Young King caught sight of him first. “Hello, Sheriff!” he shouted gaily. “Which of us do you want? And what have we been doing now?”
Rowan’s heart sank. Matson had beaten the time he had allowed him by nearly twenty-four hours. But he turned a wooden face and a cool, impassive eye upon the sheriff.
“ ’Lo, Aleck! Won’t you ’light?”
“Reckon I will, Mac.”
The sheriff swung from his horse stiffly and came forward into the firelight. At least six pairs of eyes watched him closely, but the tanned, leathery face of the officer told nothing.