"You're an old-timer," he said to the gray-eyed man; "but him"—he jerked a contemptuous thumb at the second—"it's a wonder to me he ever growed up. Don't you do it no more, friend. Don't you never take your eyes off a man you've called a —— —— fool, or maybe the next thing they beholds is the Promised Land!"
But his words had not been intended as a ruse. Casey was riding over on his little gray mare to see who the strangers were, and what they wanted.
"This man tells me you're Dunne," said the gray-eyed man.
"That's correct," Casey admitted.
"My name is Dade; his name is Cross." He indicated his companion by a sidewise nod. "We've bought land from this here irrigation outfit. So have half a dozen other men, friends of ours. Now we can't get water."
"Well?"
"Well, the company puts it up that some of you fellows is to blame. You've cut the ditches so they won't carry. We've come to tell you that this has got to stop."
"That's kind of you, anyway," Casey observed quietly. He and Dade eyed each other appraisingly.
"What I want to make plumb clear," said the latter, "is that this don't go no more. It's no good. You'll leave the ditches alone, or else——"
"Or else?" Casey suggested.