THE PAINT HOSS DISAPPEARS

Wakened by the gong, Dave lay luxuriously in the warmth of his blankets.  It was not for several moments that he remembered the fight or the circumstances leading to it.  The grin that lit his boyish face at thought of its unexpected conclusion was a fleeting one, for he discovered that it hurt his face to smile.  Briskly he rose, and grunted “Ouch!” His sides were sore from the rib squeezing of Miller’s powerful arms.

Byington walked out to the remuda with him.  “How’s the man-tamer this glad mo’nin’?” he asked of Dave.

“Fine and dandy, old lizard.”

“You sure got the deadwood on him when yore spurs got into action.  A man’s like a watermelon.  You cayn’t tell how good he is till you thump him.  Miller is right biggity, and they say he’s sudden death with a gun.  But when it come down to cases he hadn’t the guts to go through and stand the gaff.”

“He’s been livin’ soft too long, don’t you reckon?”

“No, sir.  He just didn’t have the sand in his craw to hang on and finish you off whilst you was rippin’ up his laigs.”

Dave roped his mount and rode out to meet Chiquito.  The pinto was an aristocrat in his way.  He preferred to choose his company, was a little disdainful of the cowpony that had no accomplishments.  Usually he grazed a short distance from the remuda, together with one of Bob Hart’s string.  The two ponies had been brought up in the same bunch.

This morning Dave’s whistle brought no nicker of joy, no thud of hoofs galloping out of the darkness to him.  He rode deeper into the desert.  No answer came to his calls.  At a canter he cut across the plain to the wrangler.  That young man had seen nothing of Chiquito since the evening before, but this was not at all unusual.

The cowpuncher returned to camp for breakfast and got permission of the foreman to look for the missing horses.

Beyond the flats was a country creased with draws and dry arroyos.  From one to another of these Dave went without finding a trace of the animals.  All day he pushed through cactus and mesquite heavy with gray dust.  In the late afternoon he gave up for the time and struck back to the flats.  It was possible that the lost broncos had rejoined the remuda of their own accord or had been found by some of the riders gathering up strays.

Dave struck the herd trail and followed it toward the new camp.  A horseman came out of the golden west of the sunset to meet him.  For a long time he saw the figure rising and falling in the saddle, the pony moving in the even fox-trot of the cattle country.

The man was Bob Hart.

“Found ’em?” shouted Dave when he was close enough to be heard.

“No, and we won’t—­not this side of Malapi.  Those scalawags didn’t make camp last night.  They kep’ travelin’.  If you ask me, they’re movin’ yet, and they’ve got our broncs with ’em.”