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left hand. And if not for taking fever, Bob would have been in the Devil’s Den along with Jamie and the others.
    â€œBe good to see an ole friend,” Pinto said aloud. After all, there were pitiful few of them left.
    He awoke to find a bright yellow sun filling the eastern sky. Down below, men drove cattle in bands of fifty or so in dust swirls that rose halfway to heaven. Pinto thought he recognized one or two of the cowboys. Surely that was little Ned Larsen there. Or one of Ned’s brothers. Ned would be nigh on twenty now, and the slim-shouldered rider below couldn’t be more than fifteen at full stretch.
    Time passes , Pinto told himself as he pulled on his clothes and set about saddling the big black. He removed the hobbles from the horses next and led them down to the river. As the animals drank, Pinto splashed water over his face and ran an old comb through his hair. Weeks on the Llano had made him a wild-eyed vagabond. A few minutes with a razor, though, cleared away most of the beard, and he buttoned up his shirt and added a black string tie. None of it improved the image grinning up at him from the surface of the river, though. “Can’t make no Kentucky thoroughbred out o’ some fool range pony,” Pinto grumbled.
    Once he was satisfied the horses had watered themselves, Pinto climbed atop the black stallion and drove the other ponies along ahead of him. There was no need to tie them now. The Lazy T wasn’t a mile and a half away, and the mustangs wouldn’t stray far from the black in any case. Only the painted stallion had even the slightest inclination toward roving, and Pinto took care to keep himself between the paint and freedom.
    He rode past two roundup camps before reaching the ranchhouse. Pinto had half expected to locate Bob Toney at one or the other.
    â€œHe’s back at the house, Pinto,” Toney’s brother Jake explained. “You’ll find yourself welcome. The horses anyhow.”
    â€œYeah?” Pinto called. “You found any horse-hair spiders among the youngsters o’ late?”
    â€œOh, ever once in a while,” Jake replied, laughing. “Biggest critters in Texas. Sure to end a cowboy’s days, don’t you know?”
    â€œâ€™Course dese men here know all ’bout that,” Pinto said, eyeing the collection of scruffy teenagers that passed for a range crew. “None o’ dem’d wear red flannel.”
    â€œWhat’s red flannel got to do with spiders, mister?” a spindle-legged boy cried. “Ma swears by ’em.”
    â€œGot some myself,” a second youngster added.
    â€œWell, ole Jake’ll tell you all ’boud it,” Pinto said, exchanging a chuckle with young Toney. “You tell me how you do it dis time, won’t you, Jake?”
    â€œSure, Pinto,” Jake agreed. “Now get those horses along to Bob. He’s sure to pay you top price for ’em.”
    Pinto paused a moment to study the nervous eyes of the cowboys. One was scratching his rump, and a second squirmed as Jake began his tale. Sure thing one of them would wind up with a knot of horse hair in his pants before morning.
    Pinto laughed at the notion, then nudged the black into a trot. The other horses followed along, and soon the dozen animals and their wayfaring herder topped the low ridge that led to the Lazy T ranchhouse.
    The sound of horses charging through the early morning mists was sufficient to rouse the occupants of the house. Bob Toney stumbled outside, shotgun in hand. He was joined shortly by a pair of bewildered stablehands. Ophelia Toney remained in the doorway with her three smallish sons.
    â€œMr. Toney, it’s only horses,” one of the hands observed.
    â€œNot altogether,” Toney observed, scratching his chin. “There’s one no-account along!”
    â€œFeared o’ me, huh?” Pinto called as he turned the horses toward an empty corral. “You