He's no
account; never will be," growled Williams.
"I don't know, Brand. He's a mighty likely-looking and interesting
specimen. He's different. I kind of like him."
"Well, I don't. I ain't got time. He's always goin' to manufacture
trouble, when he don't come by it natural. He's got a kind eye, but no
brains behind it."
They mounted and rode up the hill, looking for breaks in the fences and
counting the colts, some of whom, luxuriously lazy in the heat of the
sun, stood with lowered heads, drowsing. Others, scattered about the
hillsides and in the arroyos, grazed nippingly at the sparse
bunch-grass, moving quickly from clump to clump.
The "blunder" colt seemed to find his own imbecilities sufficiently
entertaining, for he grazed alone.
The foreman's inspection terminated with the repairing of a break in the
fence inclosing the spring-hole, a small area of bog-land dotted with
hummocks of lush grass. Between the hummocks was a slimy, black ooze
that covered the bones of more than one unfortunate animal. The heavy,
ripe grass lent an appearance of stability, of solidity, to the
treacherous footing.
Williams and Collie reinforced the sagging posts with props of fallen
limbs and stones carried from the trail below.
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