and the answers came, crisp and gay, and eager, for the tingling of frost and of fight held the boys.
Murray’s eyes were bright in the dark as he rounded his troop.
“Fifteen! And all sorts of cattle and gear! Good on you, boys! Take the running, Lou. You’ve got a genius for this kind of thing.”
Steve loosed a great oath on the night.
“There ain’t no heel-taps when Lou’s shoutin’ drinks. What’s Art Scannell to pay over this, Murray?”
Murray’s brown face was suddenly hard as his voice.
“The last inch I can grind out of him. He gives more trouble than any man in the district.”
Randal caught Lou’s stirrup. He said underbreath:
“If you find him—he’s not Murray’s meat.”
Lou’s laugh was blue flame in his eyes. Here was a game to his hand; for Randal was a rider also.
“If I find him, he is. Wake up there, boys. Wheel out.”
He settled home in the leather with the light poise of one born to it, and slung the half-mad colt forward, firm-handed and easy.
The sharp air bit faces and hands, sending the blood in a gallop to the heart, and swaying fear and reluctance aside. For each type
