“What in hell are you following me for, Broome?” he snapped, savagely.
“Wanter word wi’ you, Misher Weshcott,” the fellow said, thickly.
“What about? Why aren’t you on the range? What are you hanging around here for?” The questions followed one another with a jerk.
Broome burst into a tirade of profanity, the burden of which was that he would take no bossing from Sandy Larch. He had defied the latter and had been given his time.
“So you got yourself fired,” Westcott commented in a slow rage. “You’re an even bigger blasted fool than I thought you could be.”
Broome blustered, drunkenly. Did Westcott think he was going to stand any lip from Sandy Larch when he had a fortune in sight?
“Fortune—hell!” Westcott’s fury broke bounds.
“What you’ve got in sight,” he said, hoarsely, “is an asylum for damned fools; or else a hemp necktie and a short drop. One or the other’s yours all right.”
The cow-puncher stared, stupidly.
“Gwan,” he said, “Whatcher givin’ us? Gard ain’t made no drift; he’s just now gone out to the Palo Verde; I seen ’im.”