CHAPTER IX.
THE TAILHOLT MOUNTAIN OUTFIT.
Phil and Patches were riding that day in the country about Old Camp.
Early in the afternoon, they heard the persistent bawling of a calf, and
upon riding toward the sound, found the animal deep in the cedar timber,
which in that section thickly covers the ridges. The calf was freshly
branded with the Tailholt iron. It was done, Phil said, the day before,
probably in the late afternoon. The youngster was calling for his
mother.
"It's strange, she is not around somewhere," said Patches.
"It would be more strange if she was," retorted the cowboy shortly, and
he looked from the calf to the distant Tailholt Mountain, as though he
were considering some problem which he did not, for some reason, care to
share with his companion.
"There's not much use to look for her," he added, with grim
disappointment. "That's always the way. If we had ridden this range
yesterday, instead of away over there in the Mint Wash country--I am
always about a day behind."
There was something in the manner and in the quiet speech of the usually
sunny-tempered foreman that made his companion hesitate to ask
questions, or to offer comment with the freedom that he had learned to
feel that first day of their riding together.
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