Five minutes passed--ten minutes--and he stood
still, making no move to get his horse and ride upon his day's duties.
And then, walking swiftly, Brayley came out of the trees and hurried,
lurching, toward the corral.
"What are you waitin' for?" he cried, sharply, when twenty paces away.
"Ain't you got nothin' to do to-day?"
Conniston made no answer, turning his eyes gravely upon Brayley's
face, waiting for the man to come up to him.
"Can't you hear?" called Brayley again, more sharply, coming on
swiftly. "What are you waitin' an' loafin' here for?"
"I want to talk with you a minute." Conniston's voice was very quiet,
almost devoid of expression.
"Well, talk. An' talk fast! I ain't got all day."
Brayley was standing close to him now, his eyes boring into
Conniston's, his manner impatient, irritated. For just a moment
Conniston stood as though hesitating, leaning slightly forward,
balanced upon the balls of his feet. Then he sprang forward suddenly,
without sign of warning, taking the big foreman unawares, throwing
both arms about the stalwart body, driving the heavier body back with
the impact of the one hurled against it. Brayley, standing carelessly,
loosely, his feet not braced, but close together, unprepared for the
attack, fell heavily, lifted clean off his feet, born backward, and
slammed to the ground with the breath jolted out of him, Conniston on
top of him.
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