Markham couldn’t sleep. He had prowled his office since before midnight and had killed a bottle of whiskey in the process. It was a habit that was becoming more common with him. This inability to sleep puzzled and infuriated him. Men might obey him docilely, but sleep defied him. The night was cold, but he felt nothing of it, soaked as he was with liquor. Finally, he dropped into his chair at his desk and started to doze.
He came awake abruptly when he heard the horses running. Starting, he got unsteadily to his feet and listened. To his horror, he realised that it was his prize animals that were on the move.
He hurled his chair away from him and rushed to the rifle-rack on the wall, took down his new Winchester repeater and pounded out of the room. As he reached the stoop, he heard a blood-chilling scream from the east corral and knew it for what it was - a Kiowa battle-cry. Another followed it. He responded by bawling for his men to turn out. He crossed the stoop in one bound and it seemed that his feet were torn from under him. The Winchester went off with a crash and he landed hard on his head.
Lying half-stunned in the dust of the yard, he heard the bunkhouses come awake. He also heard his treasured thoroughbreds thundering away into the night. It was like a horrible dream.
Then, suddenly, as he groped in the dust for his rifle, the yard was full of horses and he knew that the saddle-stock was out, too. He was nearly run into the ground by a galloping horse. He cursed hysterically.
Commotion broke out from either bunkhouse and men seemed to be jammed in the doorways while others struggled on the ground.
He found his rifle and made an unsuccessful grab at a horse. Raging speechlessly, he tramped across the yard to the nearest bunkhouse. Men were in the doorway, getting to their feet, shaken and angry.
“What in hell’re you fools playin’ at?” Markham roared.
A man said: “Somebody tied a rope across the door.”
“While you dim-witted sonsabitches’re lyin’ stinkin’ in your bunks my best horses have been run off. Where’s Foley?”
Foley came forward brushing dust off him. He was hatless - an unusual condition for the straw-boss who was never seen without his hat.
“Here,” he said.
“Saddle up and get after them horses.”
“What on? That was the remuda just went past you.”
Markham danced in his rage.
“Don’t answer me back, Foley, or I’ll knock your teeth down your throat. I want my horses back.”
The men started to show interest. They had never heard Foley spoken to in that way.
“Ain’t no sense in goin’ after ’em till daylight, any road,” Foley said.
“Nownownownow,” Markham howled. “Them horses’re delicate. They could come to harm runnin’ in the dark.”
Foley turned to the men and said in a weary voice: “Get your ropes, boys, and see if’n you can ketch up any of the remuda. There wasn’t nobody spookin’ them. Maybe they ain’t gone too far.”
The men moved off to find their ropes with Markham screaming for them to hurry.