“I brought along some old Sharps an’ some Spencers.  I reckon I’ll have ‘em loaded an’ distribute ’em among the boys.  Billie, tell Yankie to have that done.  The rifles are racked up in the calf wagon.”

Billie delivered the orders of the drover to the foreman as they passed on their way to the remuda.  Joe gave a snort of derision, but let it go at that.  When Homer Webb was with one of his trail outfits he was always its boss.

While Thursday watched him, Prince roped out a cinnamon horse from the remuda.  The cowpuncher was a long-bodied man, smooth-muscled and lithe.  The boy had liked his level eye and his clean, brown jaw before, just as now he approved the swift economy of his motions.

Probably Billie was about twenty years of age, but in that country men ripened young.  Both of these lads had been brought up in that rough-and-ready school of life which holds open session every day of the year.  Both had already given proofs of their ability to look out for themselves in emergency.  A wise, cool head rested on each of these pairs of young shoulders.  In this connection it is worth mentioning that the West’s most famous outlaw, Billie the Kid, a killer with twenty-one notches on his gun, had just reached his majority when he met his death some years later at the hands of Pat Garrett.

The new rider for the Flying V Y outfit did not accept the judgment of Prince without confirming it.  He examined the hoofs of the horse and felt its legs carefully.  He looked well to its ears to make sure that ticks from the mesquite had not infected the silky inner flesh.

“A good bronc, looks like,” he commented.

“One of the fastest in the remuda—­not very gentle, though.”

Thursday picked the witches’ bridles from its mane before he saddled.  As his foot found the stirrup the cinnamon rose into the air, humped its back, and came down with all four legs stiff.  The quirt burned its flank, and the animal went up again to whirl round in the air.  The boy stuck to the saddle and let out a joyous whoop.  The battle was on.

Suddenly as it had begun the contest ended.  With the unreasoning impulse of the half-broken cowpony the cinnamon subsided to gentle obedience.

The two riders cantered across the prairie in the direction of the Indian camp.  That the Apaches were still there Thursday thought altogether likely, for he knew that it takes a week to make mescal.  No doubt the raiders had stopped to hold a jamboree over the success of their outbreak.

The scouts from the cattle herd deflected toward a butte that pushed out as a salient into the plain.  From its crest they could get a sweeping view of the valley.

“There’s a gulch back of it that leads to old man Roubideau’s place,” explained Prince.  “Last time we were on this Pecos drive the boss stopped an’ bought a bunch of three-year-olds from him.  He’s got a daughter that’s sure a pippin, old man Roubideau has.  Shoot, ride, rope—­that girl’s got a lot of these alleged bullwhackers beat a mile at any one of ’em.”