“Stop this foolishness an' take down them fences for a mile each side of the trail. If Buck has to come up here the whole thing'll go down. Road-brand me two hundred of yore three-year-olds. Now as soon as you agree, an' say that the fight's over, it will be. You can't win out; an' what's the use of having yore men killed off?”
“I hate to quit,” replied the other, gloomily.
“I know how that is; but yo're wrong on this question, dead wrong. You don't own this range or the trail. You ain't got no right to close that old drive trail. Honest, now; have you?”
“You say them six ain't hurt?”
“No more'n I said.”
“An' if I give in will you treat my men right?”
“Shore.”
“When will you leave.”
“Just as soon as I get them two hundred three-year-olds.”
“Well, I hate a quitter; but I can't do nothing, nohow,” mused the 4X foreman. He cleared his throat and turned to look at the house. “All right; when you get them cows you get out of here, an' don't never come back!”