RUFUS SAID. Brady straightened to see riders coming through the gate. He and Ru had been working in the cutting pen for most of the day and he was glad of the distraction. Castrating was filthy, backbreaking work, and between the stench, and the flies, and the bawling of the calves, his nerves were stretched thin. Wiping sweat from his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, he squinted into the late afternoon sun at the two men riding toward them. He recognized Langley, one of his top hands, but didn’t know the other man nor did he recognize his horse, an underfed bay Langley ponied on a short lead. “That rider looks hurt,” Ru observed. Frowning, Brady pulled off his blood-soaked gloves and dropped them and his cutting knife in a bucket, then unbuckled his leather chaparreras and tossed them over the fence. As he swung over the top rail, Langley reined in. The other rider sagged, head drooping, and might have toppled from the saddle but for the rope that lashed his hands to the horn.
