They had almost reached them when Calumet's voice brought them to a halt.
His lips were wreathed in a cold grin, his eyes alight with a satanic humor.

But the rage had gone from his voice; it was mocking, derisive.
"Goin' to ride ?" he said.

"Oh, don't! Them horses look dead tired.
Leave them here; they need a rest.

Besides, a man can't do any thinkin' to amount to anything when he's forkin' a horse, an' I reckon you two coyotes will be doin' a heap of thinkin' on your way back to the Arrow." "Good Lord!" said the elder Taggart; "you don't mean that?
Why, it's fifteen miles to the Arrow!" "Shucks," said Calumet; "so it is! An' it's after midnight, too.

But you wouldn't want them poor, respectable critters to be gallivantin' around at this time of the night, when they ought to be in bed dreamin' of the horse-heaven which they're goin' to one of these days when the Taggarts don't own them any more.