"Boss, it's likely you did, fer you talk a lot," replied Farlane. "Lucy pulled
my hat down over my eyes--told me to go to thunder--an' then, zip! she an'
Buckles were dustin' it fer the sage."

"She's got to keep out of the sage," growled Bostil. "It ain't safe for her
out there. . . . Where's my glass? I want to take a look at the slope. Where's
my glass?"

The glass could not be found.

"What's makin' them dust-clouds on the sage? Antelope? . . . Holley, you used
to have eyes better 'n me. Use them, will you?"

A gray-haired, hawk-eyed rider, lean and worn, approached with clinking spurs.

"Down in there," said Bostil, pointing.

"Thet's a bunch of hosses," replied Holley.

"Wild hosses?"

"I take 'em so, seein' how they throw thet dust."

"Huh! I don't like it. Lucy oughtn't be ridin' round alone."

"Wal, boss, who could catch her up on Buckles? Lucy can ride. An' there's the
King an' Sarch right under your nose--the only hosses on the sage thet could
outrun Buckles."

Farlane knew how to mollify his master and long habit had made him proficient.