“Let him lay!” he ordered savagely. “That’s one more, anyhow, no odds who got him. Buzzards is too good for him!” “Miss Taisie,” he began again as he found her at the cook fire, “that’s one of the Rudabaugh gang, all right. If it was Dan McMasters killed him he done it by mistake; he thought it was one of our men. Afore he went, he folds this corp’s hands and covers up his face with his hat. What more could he do?” The girl sat silent, her face cold as some cameo in ice. “Taisie Lockhart”—the old foreman’s voice was hard now—“one thing at least—you don’t need no more proof now! That’s over, anyhow!” CHAPTER XVII MR. DALHART DECLARES “ON OUR way, Sanchez!” commanded Nabours, breaking the tense silence of the disheartened camp. “We’ve got to get back. The boys are holding three or four bunches over thataway.” “_Seguro_, Señor Jeem,” replied the old man. He nodded. Yet another rider was coming in. “That’s Dalhart. He ought to know something. We’ve got to have fresh horses.” “_Poco tiempo!_” The keen ear of the old Mexican again served. Afar they heard a tinkling. From behind a screening mesquite fringe showed the head of the remuda, following a gray bell mare at a stiff trot. Back of the horses rode Cinquo, his clothing stripped, his face bloody and pale. He got no word of praise, nor asked one. The black bruises on his legs showed through his ripped jeans. “Well?” The trail boss turned to Dalhart, grimed and dust-covered, who had brought a tin cup to the fire. “We’ve got around a thousand head, maybe twelve hunderd. Del and two boys are holding ’em on a flat this side the pecan bottoms—three mile, I reckon. Ain’t it hell? They scattered like pa’tridges. I ain’t seen no one else.” “_Yo_, me an’ dos hombres!” began Sanchez, excited, pointing. “Damn it, talk English, Sanchez!” interrupted Nabours savagely. “_Seguro; muy bien, Señor Corporal_,” rejoined Sanchez. “I say, two man and me, we got plenty _vacas_ round up. They send-a me for tobac’. We got h’eight, seven hoonderd head, _piense qu’ si_. Most half-a da herd.” “Not half yet. Well, Dalhart, I’ve got to ride the fan. Stay here and watch things. We’ll make the gethering to this bed ground.” “But who done that shooting anyway?” demanded Dalhart suddenly. “That’s what started ’em.” Nabours looked over his shoulder to where Taisie sat. “Dalhart,” said he, “there’s funny business. The Rudabaugh gang is follering us, nigh as I can tell. They allowed to stampede the herd and then jump what was left of the camp.” “But who shot?” “I’d take my oath it was Dan McMasters, the man we sent out of our camp. Well, he killed one of his own men.” “The hell!” “Yes, he did. Look yon!” The great birds now made a black blot on the grass. “That’s one of the Rudabaugh men. McMasters killed him by mistake. He was right in Miss Taisie’s camp.”