"Naw. I'm huntin' a couple of old brood mares Mister Kester bought
offen the Bar A. They strayed away about a week ago."

"Alone?"

"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!"