During the hours that
followed Phil said very little, and when he did speak his words were
brief and often curt, while, to Patches, he seemed to study the country
over which they rode with unusual care. When they had eaten their rather
gloomy lunch, he was in the saddle again almost before Patches had
finished, with seemingly no inclination for their usual talk.
The afternoon, was nearly gone, and they were making their way homeward
when they saw a Cross-Triangle bull that had evidently been hurt in a
fight. The animal was one of the Dean's much-prized Herefords, and the
wound needed attention.
"We've got to dope that," said Phil, "or the screwworms will be working
in it sure." He was taking down his riata and watching the bull, who was
rumbling a sullen, deep-voiced challenge, as he spoke.
"Can I help?" asked Patches anxiously, as he viewed the powerful beast,
for this was the first full-grown animal needing attention that he had
seen in his few days' experience.
"No," returned Phil. "Just keep in the clear, that's all. This chap is
no calf, and he's sore over his scrap. He's on the prod right now."
It all happened in a few seconds.
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