"Not yet." John continued to stare intently. Others noticed his posture and followed his gaze.
"It's Scott Parsons!" cried Charleton Falkner.
"Shall we go get him?" exclaimed Jimmy Day.
"No. He's starved out and giving up. Let's hear what he has to say," said John.
The dehorning went on. Half a dozen more bleeding steers had been turned out before Scott, weary, gaunt, haggard beyond words, leading an emaciated young bull, drew rein beside the smaller corral. The roping came to a pause. John twisted a lariat round the neck of a steer he was working on and led it to the fence. The others followed.
"Well, why the committee of welcome?" asked Scott hoarsely. His bloodshot eyes turned from one to another.
"Where'd you find the bull, Scott?" asked John.
"First located him on Fire Mesa. Been round about considerable since."
"Whose bull is it now?" Charleton Falkner pushed Democrat toward the fence.
"Mine!" Scott spoke shortly, his freckled face unmoved.
"Do you think it was worth the price?" demanded Spencer.
Scott looked searchingly at the crowd before him. The steer John was holding had been dehorned but not seared. The blood had run down the brute's white face and formed a crimson icicle on its under lip. John had run his fingers through his ashen hair, leaving it blood-smeared. Charleton was lighting a bloodstained cigarette with the hot searing-iron. Judith pounded her half-frozen fingers together.
"What price did I pay?" asked Scott.
