" The old majordomo was riding
the black mare. A touch of the spur, a bound, and she was beside
Loustalot's foreman, with Pablo cutting the fellow furiously over the
head and face with his heavy quirt. The other three sheepmen ran for
the tent, but Don Mike spurred the gray in between them and their
objective, at the same time drawing his carbine.
There was no further argument. The sheepherders' effects were soon
transferred to the backs of three burros and, driving the little
animals ahead of them, the Basques moved out. Farrel and Don Nicolas
followed them to the boundaries of the ranch and shooed them out
through a break in the fence.
"Regarding that stranger who camped last night in the valley, Don
Miguel. Would it not be well to look into his case?"
Don Mike nodded. "We will ride up the valley, Pablo, as if we seek
cattle; if we find this fellow we will ask him to explain."
"That is well," the old Indian agreed, and dropped back to his
respectful position in his master's rear. As they topped the ridge
that formed the northern buttress of the San Gregorio, Pablo rode to
the left and started down the hill through a draw covered with a thick
growth of laurel, purple lilac, a few madone trees and an occasional
oak. He knew that a big, five-point buck had its habitat here and it
was Pablo's desire to jump this buck out and thus afford his master a
glimpse of the trophy that awaited him later in the year.
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