CHAPTER XIII—Accused
AROUND the horse corral at the San Antonio Rancho some half-dozen cowboys were squatted on their heels, cowboy-fashion, swapping the news of the day. They had ridden in from various points of the compass, and two or three of their horses, those of the latest comers, still stood saddled outside the enclosure, the reins dropped loosely over their heads, which for the trained cow-pony is just as effective an anchorage as any stake and rope.
Two or three cigarettes were a-light, and the “makings” were passing from hand to hand among those not yet engaged in the leisurely blowing of smoke rings. The topic of conversation was the rumored sale of the ranch, which some declared to be assuredly impending, while others dismissed the possibility of such a big deal going through as the merest moonshine.
Jack Rover was among those who had no illusions as to the future.
“Believe me, fellers,” he was remarking, “it’s no false alarm this time. The old rancho is as good as sold, the stock is a-going to be shipped out, the farmers is a-coming in, and in a few months’ time we’ll all be hunting jobs if there’s any more cow-punching jobs left in this blamed new topsy-turvy world. And that’s the straight goods—hell!”
Just as this terse and vigorous summation of the whole dispute found utterance, all eyes were turned in a particular direction. It was young Thurston’s riderless steed that had attracted attention as it swept toward its accustomed quarters in the corral.
“It’s Marshall’s horse,” observed one of the boys.
“Off again, on again, gone again, Flannigan,” laughed another—an adaptation of a popular story that evoked a general grin.
But one youth had sprung to his feet, and skilfully caught the bridle of the panting animal as it passed him.
“Whoa, beauty!”