"Might better be," replied the cowboy in tones of disgust. "I've got that damned fool, Joe Ainslee, along--or ruther I had him. Bob Brumley's foreman of the K 2, now, an' he hired the Wind Bag in a moment of mental abortion, as the fellow says, an' he don't dast fire him for fear he'll starve to death. They wouldn't no other outfit have him around. An' I'm thinkin' he'll be damn lucky if he lives long enough to starve to death. Bob sent him along with me--said he'd do less harm than with the round-up, an' would be safer--me bein' amiable enough not to kill him offhand." "Ain't you found your mares?" Curt snorted: "Yes. Found 'em couple hours ago. An' now I've lost the Wind Bag. Them mares was grazin' right plumb in plain sight of where I'd sent him circlin', an' doggone if he not only couldn't find 'em, but he's lost hisself. An' if he don't show up pretty damn _pronto_ he kin stay lost--an' the K 2 will win, at that." The Texan grinned: "Go get your mares, Curt. The short-horn has stampeded. I shouldn't wonder if he's a-foggin' it through the mountains right now to get himself plumb famous for tippin' off the district attorney where to do his minin'." "You seen him!" "Yes, we had quite a little pow-wow." "You sure didn't let him git holt of nothin'!" "Yes. He's about to bust with the information he gathered. An' say, he might of seen them mares an' passed 'em up. He ain't huntin' no brood mares, he's after twenty head of young saddle stock--forgot to mention there was any one with him. Said it was easy to run three-year-olds off their own range single handed if you savvied horses. Called Mister Kester 'Old Pete' an' told of an orgy they had mutual in the Long Horn." Curt burst out laughing: "Can you beat it?" "I suppose they'll have Red Rock Coulee all mussed up," reflected the Texan, with a grin. "You wait 'til I tell the boys." "Don't you. They'd hurt him. He's a-whirlin' a bigger loop than he can throw, the way it is." Curt fumbled in his slicker and produced a flask which he tendered. Tex shook his head: "No thanks, I ain't drinkin'." "You ain't _what_?" "No, I'm off of it"; he dismounted and tightened his cinch, and the other followed his example. "Off of it! You ain't sick, or nothin'?" "No. Can't a man----?" "Oh, sure, he could, but he wouldn't, onless--you got your camp near here?" Tex was aware the other was eyeing him closely. "Tolerable." "Let's go camp then. I left my pack horse hobbled way up on Last Water." The Texan was thinking rapidly. Curt was a friend of long standing and desired to share his camp, which is the way of the cow country. Yet, manifestly this was impossible. There was only one way out and that was to give offence. "No. I'm campin' alone these days." A slow red mounted to the other's face and his voice sounded a trifle hard: "Come on up to mine, then. It ain't so far." "I said I was campin' alone."