In this fashion did the social sky clear, even though the snow continued to drive against those who broke bread together out there in the dreary wastes, with the snow halfway to their knees.  The Native Son, being half Spanish and knowing well the language of his father, talked a little with Tomas.  Ramone made himself friendly with any one who would give him any attention.  But Applehead scowled over his boiled-beef sandwich and his coffee, and kept his back turned upon the Chavez brothers, and would not talk at all.  He eyed them sourly when they still loitered after the meal was over and the remains packed away in the box by Annie-Many-Ponies, and Luck had gone to work again with Bill Holmes at his heels and the boys helping to place the cattle to Luck’s liking.

When the Chavez brothers finally did show symptoms of intending to leave, Luck beckoned to Tomas, whom he judged to be the leader.  “Here,” he said in Spanish, when Tomas had come close to him.  “I will pay you for using your cattle.  When I am through, my boys will drive them back to the mesa again.  For my picture I may need them again, senor.  I promise you they will not be harmed.”  And he charged in his expense book the sum, “to use of locations.”

“Gracias,” said Tomas, and took the five dollars which Luck could ill afford to give, but which he felt would smooth materially the trail to their future work.  Cattle he must have for his picture; cattle he would have at any cost,—­but it would be well to have them with the consent of their owners.  So the Chavez brothers rode away with smiles for their neighbors instead of threats, and with five dollars which had come to them like a gift.

“Yuh might better uh kicked ’em outa here without no softsoapin’ about it, now I’m tellin’ yuh!” Applehead grumbled when they were out of earshot.  “You may know your business better’n what I do, but by thunder I wouldn’t uh give ’em no five dollars—­ner five cents.  ‘S like feedin’ a stray dog; yuh won’t never git rid of ’em now.  They’ll be hangin’ around under yer feet—­”

“At that, I might have use for them,” Luck retorted unmoved.  “They’re fine types.”

“Types!” old Applehead exploded indignantly.  “Types!  They’re sneak-thieves and cutthroats ’t I wouldn’t trust fur’s I could throw a bull by the tail.  That’s what they be.  Types,—­my granny!”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“PLUMB SPOILED, D’ YUH MEAN?”

Luck came out of the dark room with the still, frozen, look of a trouble that has gone too deep for words.  Annie-Many-Ponies eyed him aslant and straightway placed the hottest, juiciest piece of steak on his plate, and poured his coffee even before she poured for old Dave Wiswell, whom she favored as being an old acquaintance of the Pine Ridge country.