Coming
to himself with a start he looked around shamefacedly and retraced his
course. He was very much troubled, for, as foreman of the Bar-2o, he
had many responsibilities, and when things ceased to go aright he was
expected not only to find the cause of the evil, but also the remedy.
That was what he was paid seventy dollars a month for and that was
what he had been endeavoring to do. As yet, however, he had only
accomplished what the meanest cook's assistant had done. He knew the
cause of his present woes to be rustlers (cattle thieves), and that
was all.
Riding down the wide, quiet street, he stopped and dismounted before
the ever-open door of a ramshackle, one-story frame building. Tossing
the reins over the flattened ears of his vicious pinto he strode into
the building and leaned easily against the bar, where he drummed with
his fingers and sank into a reverie.
A shining bald pate, bowed over an open box, turned around and
revealed a florid face, set with two small, twinkling blue eyes, as
the proprietor, wiping his hands on his trousers, made his way to
Buck's end of the bar.
"Mornin', Buck. How's things?`
The foreman, lost in his reverie, continued to stare out the door.
"Mornin'," repeated the man behind the bar. "How's things?"
"Oh!" ejaculated the foreman, smiling, "purty cussed."
"Anything flew?"
"Th' C-80 lost another herd last night.
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