It's a cinch their camp ain't far from
their livestock. I wonder----"
To the left of us a horse snorted nervously; we heard him trot with
high, springy strides to the end of his rope, and snort again. Then a
voice cut the stillness that followed: "Here, you fool, what's the
matter with you?"
We hugged the ground like frightened rabbits. It hardly seemed possible
that we could be within speaking-distance of them--yet that was
Gregory's clear enunciation; I would know his speech in a jabberfest of
several nations.
"What's the matter?" That, by the curt inflection, the autocratic
peremptoriness, was Lessard. I had one hand on MacRae's shoulder, and I
felt a tremor run through his body, like the rising of a cat's fur at
sight of an adversary.
"Oh, nothing much," Gregory answered carelessly. "I was just speaking to
one of these fool horses. They seem to be as nervous as you are." And
we could hear him chuckle over this last remark.
After that there was nothing but the muffled tr-_up_, tr-_up_ of grazing
horses. Piegan or MacRae, I could not tell which, tugged gently at my
arm, and the three of us retreated slowly, crawling both literally and
figuratively. When we were well away from the camp of that ungodly
combination, Piegan rose to his feet and we proceeded a little faster
until we reached a distance that permitted of low-toned conversation.
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