SON OF THE WIND
some sleep." He had been shocked at Ferrier's performance, but it had opened his eyes to the man's abject state of nerves. It was clear he would never do for a messenger. He might blurt out the secret to the first face.
Carron made himself ready, giving the half-breed final instructions. He was to give Ferrier coffee, all the black coffee he wanted, but no whisky on his life. He was to drive the stallion into the open part of the corral—Ferrier must help him with that—and put up the second wall of canvas at the edge of the trees. Better leave the two mares in the corral, and from time to time try driving the horse with them.
The little brown man listened attentively, and offered no comment. There was the man to leave!—a fellow with a dog's faith, and no ideas in his head but the ones Carron put into it. He hated to leave him here with the whole weight of responsibility, and said so. Suppose any part of the corral should prove weak?
The man contemptuously smiled. Fifty horses like that, he represented, couldn't get out of it.
"There aren't fifty like that, Charley," Carron said—"there isn't one." His sweater was pulled to his ears, his cap over his eyes, his quirt in his hand.
The morning was half gone and there was no time
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