The ears of the mustang flattened close to its neck and a devil of hate came up in its eyes, but it stood quiet, while Nash went about at a judicious distance and examined all the vital points.  The hoofs were sound, the backbone prominent, but not a high ridge from famine or much hard riding, and the indomitable hate in the eyes of the mustang seemed to please the cowpuncher.

It was a struggle to bridle the beast, which was accomplished only by grinding the points of his knuckles into a tender part of the jowl to make the locked teeth open.

In saddling, the knee came into play again, rapping the ribs of the brute repeatedly before the wind, which swelled out the chest to false proportions, was expelled in a sudden grunt, and the cinch whipped up taut.  After that Nash dodged the flying heels, chose his time, and vaulted into the saddle.

The mustang trotted quietly out of the barn.  Perhaps he had had his fill of bucking on that treacherous, slippery wooden floor, but once outside he turned loose the full assortment of the cattle-pony’s tricks.  It was only ten minutes, but while it lasted the cursing of Nash was loud and steady, mixed with the crack of his murderous quirt against the roan’s flanks.  The bucking ended as quickly as it had begun, and they started at a long canter over the trail.

CHAPTER XII

THE FIRST DAY

Mile after mile of the rough trail fell behind him, and still the pony shambled along at a loose trot or a swinging canter; the steep upgrades it took at a steady jog and where the slopes pitched sharply down, it wound among the rocks with a faultless sureness of foot.

Certainly the choice of Nash was well made.  An Eastern horse of blood over a level course could have covered the same distance in half the time, but it would have broken down after ten miles of that hard trail.

Dawn came while they wound over the crest of the range, and with the sun in their faces they took the downgrade.  It was well into the morning before Nash reached Logan.  He forced from his eye the contempt which all cattlemen feel for sheepherders.

“I s’pose you’re here askin’ after Bard?” began Logan without the slightest prelude.

“Bard?  Who’s he?”

Logan considered the other with a sardonic smile.

“Maybe you been ridin’ all night jest for fun?”

“If you start usin’ your tongue on me, Logan you’ll wear out the snapper on it.  I’m on my way to the A Circle Y.”

“Listen; I’m all for old man Drew.  You know that.  Tell me what Bard has on him?”

“Never heard the name before.  Did he rustle a couple of your sheep?”

Logan went on patiently:  “I knew something was wrong when Drew was here yesterday but I didn’t think it was as bad as this.”

“What did Drew do yesterday?”

“Came up as usual to potter around the old house, I guess, but when he heard about Bard bein’ here he changed his mind sudden and went home.”