He tried to speak to her, but could not. Nor
did she speak to him, but laid her hand on his forehead, pressing down
his eyelids. Her hand was dry and hot. Pete tried to open his
eyes--to raise his hand, to speak. Although his eyes were closed and
Boca's hot hand was pressed down on them, Pete knew that round-about
was a light and warmth of noonday . . . Boca's hand drew back--and
Pete lay staring straight into the morning sun which shone through the
open doorway. In the distance he could see Brevoort riding slowly
toward him. Pete raised on his elbow and threw back the blankets. As
he rose and pulled on his overalls he thought of the messenger. He
knew that somewhere back on the northern trail the men of the Olla were
pushing a herd of cattle slowly south,--cattle from the T-Bar-T, the
Blue, and . . . he suddenly recalled Harper's remark--"And countin' the
Concho stuff . . ." Pete thought of Jim Bailey and Andy White, and of
pleasant days riding for the Concho. But after all, it was none of his
affair. He had had no hand in stealing the cattle. He would do well
enough to keep his own hide whole.
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