Page:Cherokee Trails (1928).pdf/110

 Simpson wondered if they hadn't struck the ground running and kept it up ever since. They didn't say a word; Simpson made no effort to engage them in talk, knowing the breed very well. They stood eyeing him like wild creatures ready to pitch into him at the first unfriendly movement, as untidy and mean-looking mess of brats as ever came his way.

Simpson returned to the bunk-house when he had finished supper and, there being nothing else to engage him, picked out the cleanest-smelling bunk and went to bed. He was pretty thoroughly beaten out by last night's cold ride and to-day's experiences. It was unlikely his adventures would pursue him to that place, he thought, although he tied the cinch of Coburn's saddle, the roll still behind it, around the pole that formed the foundation of his bunk, and thrust the big black-handled revolver which Mrs. Ellison had pressed him to take, under the end of his hay-stuffed pillow.

The smell of ham was in the air when he woke, and the sun was shining in at the open door. He gave his horse more hay, that being the only animal provender to be found, or expected to be found, around Coburn's shiftless sheds, made his ablutions in the trough and was looking hungrily toward the house when Coburn drove up in a muddy buggy, accompanied by a youngster who had come to take the rig back to the livery stable at Drumwell.

Coburn got out of the buggy slowly, letting himself down cautiously, keeping his eyes on Simpson with a dumbfounded, astonished expression on his face that went farther than anything he could have said. Simpson real-