while the shadows lengthened, the sky flamed scarlet and gold above the western hills, and
the hush of evening descended on the rangeland.
Brant declined a pressing invitation to spend the night at the Bar O.
“Want to be back at the spread in the morning,” he told his host. “Lot of chores that need looking after.”
He rode home beneath the stars, the rangeland a blue and silver mystery blanketed in silence. As he rode, he whistled gaily,
or sang snatches of love songs in a voice that caused Smoke to flatten his ears and snort in abject dismay.
Chapter Nine
Brant had plenty to do. Among other things, he made a careful survey of the cows on the spread in order to ascertain the possibility
of another trail herd without delay. In the course of this activity he learned things that caused his black brows to draw
together.
“You’re right, we’re losing critters,” he told his range boss. “More than I’d figured on. Not only calves, but a heap of prime
beef critters. We’ve got to organize regular line riding, night and day. We can’t afford the losses we’re suffering. I sure
wish the Old Man and the rest of the boys would get back pronto.”
A week later, much to Brant’s relief, old John Webb and the outfit roared into camp.
“Everything went hunky-dory,” said Webb after he and Brant had shaken hands. “I got a sight more for the remuda than I’d hoped
for. Shanghai Pierce sure did me a good turn. Incidentally, he sent regards to you. A nice feller, old Shang.”
Brant was counting noses. He missed a familiar face.
“Where’s Cole Dawson?” he asked abruptly.
Webb shrugged his big shoulders. “Damned if I know,” he replied. “He came to me
the morningyou rode out of town and asked for his time. Said he calc’lated to stick around Dodge for a spell. Said he might have a try
at buffalo hunting for a change. Ain’t seen him since. Just as well. He’s been on the prod for quite a while, and he sure
wasn’t better at all after you hauled him out of the Cimarron at the Crossin’, and then saved his hide in Dodge. Feller would
think you’d handed him a dirty deal of some sort, instead of savin’ his wuthless carcass. He’s a queer jigger.”
“But a mighty good cowman,” Brant interjected.
“Uh-huh,” agreed Webb, “but I can get plenty of them without havin’ to put up with Cole’s loco notions. I’m glad he drew his
wages. By the way, speakin’ of pesky critters, I saw that big feller Doran up at the Crossin’, the one they say owns the Deadfall.
He was in a helluva shape. All stove up. Had one arm in a sling and was walkin’ with a cane.”
“Must have fallen down and hurt himself,” Brant commented.
“Uh-huh,” Webb returned dryly, “off a cliff, from the looks of him.”
Another busy week followed. Brant had plenty to do, but he did manage to find time to drop in at the Bar O ranch house a couple
of times. Old Nate was glad to see him, and Verna did not appear particularly displeased. One day Nate Loring rode part of
the way back to the Running W with his young friend. In the course of the ride, Nate discussed something that caused Brant
to do some serious thinking. They were inspecting a bunch of Loring’s longhorns, estimating their weight for possible shipping.
“There’s too much length and bone in those darn critters,” Loring remarked. “You don’t get the meat off their carcasses you
should, and meat is what brings in the money. Reminds me of somethin’ up in Oklahoma. A feller up there from back East owns
a little spread. Bought it when he came west. Raised critters up in New En gland, he said. Well, that feller, Tom Sutton,
sent back East for some bulls like what he used to handle there. He called ’em Herefords. Well, he crossed them Herefords
with Longhorn cows and them crosses showed a weight of three hundred pounds and better more than critters from a scrub bull.
That feller had a notion. Might
the hush of evening descended on the rangeland.
Brant declined a pressing invitation to spend the night at the Bar O.
“Want to be back at the spread in the morning,” he told his host. “Lot of chores that need looking after.”
He rode home beneath the stars, the rangeland a blue and silver mystery blanketed in silence. As he rode, he whistled gaily,
or sang snatches of love songs in a voice that caused Smoke to flatten his ears and snort in abject dismay.
Chapter Nine
Brant had plenty to do. Among other things, he made a careful survey of the cows on the spread in order to ascertain the possibility
of another trail herd without delay. In the course of this activity he learned things that caused his black brows to draw
together.
“You’re right, we’re losing critters,” he told his range boss. “More than I’d figured on. Not only calves, but a heap of prime
beef critters. We’ve got to organize regular line riding, night and day. We can’t afford the losses we’re suffering. I sure
wish the Old Man and the rest of the boys would get back pronto.”
A week later, much to Brant’s relief, old John Webb and the outfit roared into camp.
“Everything went hunky-dory,” said Webb after he and Brant had shaken hands. “I got a sight more for the remuda than I’d hoped
for. Shanghai Pierce sure did me a good turn. Incidentally, he sent regards to you. A nice feller, old Shang.”
Brant was counting noses. He missed a familiar face.
“Where’s Cole Dawson?” he asked abruptly.
Webb shrugged his big shoulders. “Damned if I know,” he replied. “He came to me
the morningyou rode out of town and asked for his time. Said he calc’lated to stick around Dodge for a spell. Said he might have a try
at buffalo hunting for a change. Ain’t seen him since. Just as well. He’s been on the prod for quite a while, and he sure
wasn’t better at all after you hauled him out of the Cimarron at the Crossin’, and then saved his hide in Dodge. Feller would
think you’d handed him a dirty deal of some sort, instead of savin’ his wuthless carcass. He’s a queer jigger.”
“But a mighty good cowman,” Brant interjected.
“Uh-huh,” agreed Webb, “but I can get plenty of them without havin’ to put up with Cole’s loco notions. I’m glad he drew his
wages. By the way, speakin’ of pesky critters, I saw that big feller Doran up at the Crossin’, the one they say owns the Deadfall.
He was in a helluva shape. All stove up. Had one arm in a sling and was walkin’ with a cane.”
“Must have fallen down and hurt himself,” Brant commented.
“Uh-huh,” Webb returned dryly, “off a cliff, from the looks of him.”
Another busy week followed. Brant had plenty to do, but he did manage to find time to drop in at the Bar O ranch house a couple
of times. Old Nate was glad to see him, and Verna did not appear particularly displeased. One day Nate Loring rode part of
the way back to the Running W with his young friend. In the course of the ride, Nate discussed something that caused Brant
to do some serious thinking. They were inspecting a bunch of Loring’s longhorns, estimating their weight for possible shipping.
“There’s too much length and bone in those darn critters,” Loring remarked. “You don’t get the meat off their carcasses you
should, and meat is what brings in the money. Reminds me of somethin’ up in Oklahoma. A feller up there from back East owns
a little spread. Bought it when he came west. Raised critters up in New En gland, he said. Well, that feller, Tom Sutton,
sent back East for some bulls like what he used to handle there. He called ’em Herefords. Well, he crossed them Herefords
with Longhorn cows and them crosses showed a weight of three hundred pounds and better more than critters from a scrub bull.
That feller had a notion. Might
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