“Dave owes me for work, Pop, so I took what grub I needed,” he explained with elaborate candor. “I'll show you what I've got, so you'll know I'm not taking anything that I've no right to.” He set down the sack, opened it and looked up into what appeared to be the largest-muzzled six-shooter he had ever seen in his life. Sheer astonishment held him there gaping, half stooped over the sack.
“No ye don't, young feller!” Pop snarled vindictively. “Yuh think I'd let a horse thief git off 'n this ranch whilst I'm able to pull a trigger? You fork her that money you got on ye, first thing yuh do! it's mine by rights—I told yuh I'd help ye to win money off 'n the valley crowd, and I done it. An' what does you do? Never pay a mite of attention to me after I'd give ye all the inside workin's of the game—never offer to give me my share—no, by Christmas, you go steal a horse of my son's and hide him out somewheres, and go lose mighty near all I helped yuh win, playin' poker! Think I'm goin' to stand for that? Think two hundred dollars is goin' to even things up when I helped ye to win a fortune? Hand over that fifty you got on yuh!”
Very meekly, his face blank, Bud reached into his pocket and got the money. Without a word he pulled two or three dollars in silver from his trousers pockets and added that to the lot. “Now what?” he wanted to know.
“Now You'll wait till Dave gits here to hang yuh fer horse-stealing!” shrilled Pop. “Jerry! Oh, Jerry! Where be yuh? I got 'im, by Christmas—I got the horse thief—caught him carryin good grub right outa the house!”
“Look out, Jerry!” called Bud, glancing quickly toward the bunk-house.
Now, Pop had without doubt been a man difficult to trick in his youth, but he was old, and he was excited, tickled over his easy triumph. He turned to see what was wrong with Jerry.
“Look out, Pop, you old fool, You'll bust a blood-vessel if you don't quiet down,” Bud censured mockingly, wresting the gun from the clawing, struggling old man in his arms. He was surprised at the strength and agility of Pop, and though he was forcing him backward step by step into the machine shed, and knew that he was master of the situation, he had his hands full.
“Wildcats is nothing to Pop when he gets riled,” Jerry grinned, coming up on the run. “I kinda expected something like this. What yuh want done with him, Bud?”
“Gag him so he can't holler his head off, and then take him along—when I've got my money back,” Bud panted. “Pop, you're about as appreciative as a buck Injun.”
“Going to be hard to pack him so he'll ride,” Jerry observed quizzically when Pop, bound and gagged, lay glaring at them behind the bunk-house. “He don't quite balance your two grips, Bud. And we do need hat grub.”