The reddened gleam of one eye shone at them as the cowboys from the two outfits broke through the chayas and rode down into the arroyo. They made a wondering circle round Hollister and broke into guffaws of laughter that left them weak in their saddles.
"I guess he's had enough, boys," said Sheridan. "There are a few scattered between here and Metzal you might sort of help on their way. No target shooting, boys, they'll have had all they need by the time they limp home."
"Called you a tenderfoot!" said Jackson. "Some of them'll be steppin' high an' soft afore they roost tonight. Hollister, the laugh's on you. Buenos noches."
Sheridan called Jim Lund, the wounded cowboy, who had come with the Diamond W outfit, over to him when the rest, still laughing, scattered over the mesa on their round-up.
"I said no shooting, Jim," he cautioned. "You'll ride home with us." Lund reluctantly put up his gun and obeyed. Quong mounted and the quartet started, leaving Hollister in the arroyo. When they looked back he was beginning to grope out a dim trail towards Metzal.
"You ought to have feathered him a bit," said Jackson. "An' we plumb forgot the tick. They spiled it ennyways."
Quong kept silence. The hands on his reins were steady. Sheridan wondered whether the man's sensitory system was different from that of a white man, his nervous combinations less complex, or
