"Fine and dandy, Lark. Maybe you'll want to back down on your bargain when you've seen them, but I'll hold you to it. Kind of low-down, but darn it, I fell in love with those blacks, and I'd have to fight the boys away from them if they got a sight of them before any promise passed. And I had a long, hot ride in the wind, going to the Frying Pan, and talked myself black in the face getting the hundred head at that price. Kid was asking two thousand even for the bunch, but I made him see where the cash in his hand was worth something, and I told him fifteen hundred was your limit. Any other outfit would probably stand him off for part of it, and that's what turned the trick. And by the way, Lark, you'd better go prepared to bring back the gold, because Kid might be persuaded to throw in a few yearlings extra. They've got some good-looking colts over there. Most of the mares have got sucking colts, by the way." "I'll borry three thousand, and get it all in gold," Lark planned. "I'll take a valise along, and carry the weight easy enough without it being noticed. I'll likely stay over a day in Glasgow, anyway." "Make it as quick a trip as you can, Lark. You must bear in mind that Kid expects us to-night, and I wouldn't want the deal to fall through because he got tired of waiting. He's touchy as the devil--and if I don't get those two black bronchs, I'll die!" CHAPTER EIGHT BUD HOLDS COUNCIL WITH HIMSELF When he sauntered down from the Council Rock in the full flood of moonlight, left Lark to enter the house alone and continued to the bunk house, where the boys still lingered by the doorway, Bud did not look like a man whose life depends upon getting a pair of black bronchos into his possession. His walk and his softly whistled tune betokened care-free youth. Cigarettes pricked little, red stars in the line of shadow before the long, low-roofed building where the riders of the Meadowlark were housed and fed to their complete content. The murmur of voices dwindled so that the frog chorus came sharp to the ears as Bud came up and squatted on his boot-heels alongside a man whom he identified even in the shadow as his particular friend, Frank Gelle--called Jelly with a frank disregard for proper pronunciation. "Have a good trip, Bud?" Not for a top horse would Gelle have betrayed his curiosity over the mysterious visitors. "Pretty fair. Hot as blazes riding across the reservation yesterday. Oh, by the way, Rosy, I didn't get those socks you wanted if I rode back through town. I meant to, but when the bank was robbed--" "Get out!" Gelle exclaimed, as an expression of surprise. "Some of these days, Bud, somebody's goin' to lose his patience all of a sudden. He'll just kill you and drag you off somewhere and leave you. I hate to do it, but you won't be human till somebody asks the question, so who's the girl you brought in?"