Helen herself could see no sign of life in the group of pines,
but she knew their keen, trained eyes had found what hers could
not. Riding with one or another of her cowboys, she had often
noticed how infallibly they could read the country for miles
around. A scattered patch on a distant hillside, though it might
be a half-hour's ride from them, told them a great deal more than
seemed possible. To her the dark spots sifted on that slope meant
scrub underbrush, if there was any meaning at all in them. But
her riders could tell not only whether they were alive, but could
differentiate between sheep and cattle. Indeed, McWilliams could
nearly always tell whether they were HER cattle or not. He was
unable to explain to her how he did it. By a sort of instinct,
she supposed.

The pines were negotiated in safety, and on the part of the men
with a carelessness she could not understand. For after they had
passed there was a spot between her shoulder-blades that seemed
to tingle in expectation of a possible bullet boring its way
through. But she would have died rather than let them know how
she felt.

Perhaps Bannister understood, however, for he remarked casually:
"I wouldn't be ambling past so leisurely if I was riding alone.
It makes a heap of difference who your company is, too. Those
punchers wouldn't take a chance at me now for a million dollars."

"No, they're some haidstrong, but they ain't plumb locoed,"
agreed Mac.