Tied to the trees in the
yard, and along the fence in front, or standing with bridle-reins over
their heads, the horses waited. Lying on the porch, or squatting on their
heels, in unconscious picturesque attitudes, the mountain riders who had
arrived first and had finished their breakfast were ready for the Ranger's
word. In the ranch kitchen, the table was filled with the later ones; and
these, as fast as they finished their meal, made way for the new arrivals.
There was no loud talk; no boisterous laughter; no uneasy restlessness.
Calm-eyed, soft-voiced, deliberate in movement, these hardy mountaineers
had answered Brian Oakley's call; and they placed themselves, now, under
his command, with no idle comment, no wasteful excitement but with a
purpose and spirit that would, if need be, hold them in their saddles
until their horses dropped under them, and would, then, send them on,
afoot, as long as their iron nerves and muscles could be made to respond
to their wills.
There was scarce a man in that company, who did not know and love Sibyl
Andres, and who had not known and loved her parents. Many of them had
ridden with the Ranger at the time of Will Andres' death.
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