Mr. Duffy prowled from one hide to the other. The skulls and shin bones and hoofs of the defunct animals were scattered about for all and sundry to behold, where the coyotes had gnawed them. But they knew very well that neither wolf nor coyote had pulled down a bunch of mature cattle like that. And, as the foreman of the Seventy-seven gathered the import of these remains, he grew red in the face, and his language became eloquent but unprintable.
“Some dirty thieves has been butcherin’ beef an’ gettin’ away with it,” he stormed. “I’d give five hundred dollars cold cash to lay hands on ’em.”
“If you’d advertise that in the River Press,” the same youngster laughed, “maybe they’d come in and give themselves up for the reward.”
Elmer glared at him.
“Don’t get fresh,” he growled. “This here’s serious.”
“So it seems,” Charlie Shaw replied carelessly. “But there’s no law against joshin’.”
“This ain’t no josh,” Duffy declared, embellishing his statement with an earnest oath. “And I suppose all a man can expect when he finds that a bunch of thieves is loose on the range is for featherheads like you to make a joke of it. If it was your cattle that’d been killed, you’d sing a different tune.”
Charlie Shaw’s laughing mouth shut in a tight line.
“I would, Elmer,” he said quietly. “I’d keep my mouth shut and go after ’em. I wouldn’t waste my breath cussin’.”
“You wouldn’t waste your breath cussin’!” Elmer exploded. “No! All you c’n waste is the outfit’s time an’ your money at poker. If I had to depend on boneheads like you to protect the outfit’s interests, the Seventy-seven would go to hell in two seasons. Josh—that’s all you know how to do.”