“_Black Barr. Your horse is at the Half Box._”
The message was unsigned.
I looked about. Nearby was the animal I had earlier seen the burly
individual mount and on which he had recently returned. He was lathered
from a long gallop, but still had plenty of strength and wind. I became
conscious of the eyes of the loungers fastened upon me. Without
appreciable hesitation I picked up the reins of the lathered mount.
“Hey, what yuh doin’ with that bronc?”
It was the voice of the heavy, burly fellow with the cunning eyes.
“I’m just taking him as a guide,” I said. “I want to find the Half Box
ranch and I want to find it in a hurry.”
He disclosed a long row of yellow, fanglike teeth.
“Give’m his head an’ he’ll show it to yuh.”
The words were all I needed to connect up the information I had with the
surmises I conjectured. He and I would have an accounting, this man with
the fanglike teeth and the cunning eyes; but that could wait.
The horse set his own pace and took his own trail. He was a splendid
animal. Too good an animal for the ordinary cowhand to ride. Whoever
that fellow was, he held some important position; foreman perhaps,
perhaps manager.
It was twenty minutes to the Half Box. I spotted the brand on some
pastured cattle, and the horse turned in at a rutted road, into a yard
where buildings, low, unpainted, ugly, squatted about in a rude half
square. There was a bunkhouse, a stable, a harness house, blacksmith
shop, and a big, rambling ranch-house with broad verandas. My black was
in the yard, tied snugly to a post, and he whinnied his welcome.