It did not
strike him as amusing, as even strange, that these two things and
these alone should be the only things of which he was sure. He merely
accepted them as inevitable. He felt no particular resentment toward
Brayley. The man had treated him fairly enough since that first night
in the bunk-house. He looked upon the matter calmly, almost
impersonally, as a duty to which he must attend. And he was not going
to wait for an excuse. An opportunity would do.
It was half-past ten, and very late for cow-puncher land, when Greek
strode away through the darkness to the bunk-house.
When morning came it happened that Brayley rose fifteen minutes early,
Conniston fifteen minutes late. The foreman left immediately for a far
corner of the range, and Conniston, having made a quick breakfast,
went about his own work. In the corral he selected a horse which
heretofore he had carefully left alone, knowing the brute's half-tamed
spirit and not caring to trust to it. But now it was different. He
waited his opportunity before throwing his rope. Then, as the horse,
seeming to know that he had been singled out, shot by him, he cast his
lasso. And there was a grim light, but at the same time a light of
deep satisfaction in Conniston's eyes as he saw that his whirling
noose had gone unerringly, settling as Toothy's rope would have done.
He blindfolded the big, belligerent horse to mount him.
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