“Boys,” remarked the proprietor, “I want you to meet Mr. Elkins. He came down that trail last week, an' he didn't see no fence across it.” The man at the table arose slowly. “Mr. Elkins, this is Sandy Lucas, an' Wood Wright, of the C-80. Mr. Elkins here has been a-looking over the country, sizing up what the beef prospects will be for next year; an' he knows all about wire fences. Here's how,” he smiled, treating on the house.
Mr. Elkins touched the glass to his bearded lips and set it down untasted while he joked over the sharp rebuff so lately administered to wire fences in that part of the country. While he was an ex-cow-puncher he believed that he was above allowing prejudice to sway his judgment, and it was his opinion, after careful thought, that barb wire was harmful to the best interests of the range. He had ridden over a great part of the cattle country in the last few yeas, and after reviewing the existing conditions as he understood them, his verdict must go as stated, and emphatically. He launched gracefully into a slowly delivered and lengthy discourse upon the subject, which proved to be so entertaining that his companions were content to listen and nod with comprehension. They had never met any one who was so well qualified to discuss the pros and cons of the barb-wire fence question, and they learned many things which they had never heard before. This was very gratifying to Mr. Elkins, who drew largely upon hearsay, his own vivid imagination, and a healthy logic. He was very glad to talk to men who had the welfare of the range at heart, and he hoped soon to meet the man who had taken the initiative in giving barb wire its first serious setback on that rich and magnificent southern range.
“You shore ought to meet Cassidy—he's a fine man,” remarked Lucas with enthusiasm. “You'll not find any better, no matter where you look. But you ain't touched yore liquor,” he finished with surprise.
“You'll have to excuse me, gentlemen,” replied Mr. Elkins, smiling deprecatingly. “When a man likes it as much as I do it ain't very easy to foller instructions an' let it alone. Sometimes I almost break loose an' indulge, regardless of whether it kills me or not. I reckon it'll get me yet.” He struck the bar a resounding blow with his clenched hand. “But I ain't going to cave in till I has to!”
“That's purty tough,” sympathized Wood Wright, reflectively. “I ain't so very much taken with it, but I know I would be if I knowed I couldn't have any.”
“Yes, that's human nature, all right,” laughed Lucas. “That reminds me of a little thing that happened to me once—”
“Listen!” exclaimed Cowan, holding up his hand for silence. “I reckon that's the Bar-20 now, or some of it—sounds like them when they're feeling frisky. There's allus something happening when them fellers are around.”
The proprietor was right, as proved a moment later when Johnny Nelson, continuing his argument, pushed open the door and entered the room. “I didn't neither; an' you know it!” he flung over his shoulder.
“Then who did?” demanded Hopalong, chuckling. “Why, hullo, boys,” he said, nodding to his friends at the bar. “Nobody else would do a fool thing like that; nobody but you, Kid,” he added, turning to Johnny.
“I don't care a hang what you think; I say I didn't an'—”