“Well, I niver, an’ set you up! Do ye think Ted won’t be backin’ up to the brandin’-iron wid the divil a—there! Did I not say it?”
Ted Douglas was on his feet before Scannell. He did not see Jimmie’s start, and quick-whitened face; nor Lou’s steady gaze; nor the pulsing of the pale flames beyond Scannell’s head. But he knew all these things, and he toed the mark with his head up.
“We lost twenty beasts on Black Hill yes’day,” he said. “They pitched over inter a creek-bottom. Near all young steers an’ calves, they was.”
Scannell’s face set to a look that his son knew well.
“Any special man’s fault?” he demanded.
Scott nudged Ike where they lay arm by arm on their stomachs.
“Doubles er quits?” he muttered.
Ike hit out at him loosely, unlooking. For the whole tide of his half-baked lumpish youth set with reverence and puzzlement toward Douglas.
“They broke out o’ hand on the hill,” said Ted Douglas, “from Lou’s lot; but ’tweren’t his fault. I tried to head them, an’ I couldn’t. An’ I was nearer down than Lou.”
“Then no man was to blame?” asked Scannell.
Ted answered slowly; and the shake of his voice ran through each man that he governed,
