The sheep rancher's thin lips slowly curled in a contemptuous smile. "Then I guess my ancestors on one side of the house were chanting war whoops to welcome you—"
Bat Brydges uttered a snort. Eleanor puckered her brows as at news. The Senator was fanning himself again with his hat. Even Wayland was smiling. He had heard political opponents of Moyese say that dynamite wouldn't disturb the Senator. "Only way you could raise him was yeast cake stamped with S: two sticks through it."
Certainly—Eleanor was thinking—there was some good in the worst of dragons. St. George had put his foot on one ancient beast. Wasn't it possible to tame this one, to tame all modern dragons, put a bit in their mouths and harness them to good nation building?
"Girt round with mine enemies, Miss Eleanor," he laughed, "and I slay them with the jaw bone of an ass."
The white waist-coat chortled; and she laughed. This dragon didn't spout flame but gentle ridicule, which was elusive as quicksilver slipping through your fingers.
"The point is," explained the Ranger, coming forward, "the sheep have almost grazed off up here; at least, far as we allow them to graze—"
"Besides, it's too cold for the lambs," effervesced the Missionary's boy, bouncing out of the woods.
"Shut up, Fordie," ordered Williams, holding aloof.
"Mr. MacDonald and Mr. Williams want to transfer from this Divide to the Mesas above the Rim Rocks," continued Wayland.
"Well, Mr. Forest Ranger, that is your business! The Rim Rocks are National Forest, tho' to save my life, I have never seen one tree on those Mesas. What in the world they are in the National Forest for, I don't know! You know very well I think there oughtn't to be any National Forests—each State look after its own job. Have you issued the grazing permits, Wayland? I don't see that it's any of my business."