Antonio again shrugged his shoulders and lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
"How long you been here, an' how'd you get in?"
"'N'our. By de rio."
"Oh, yore foreman's goin' to raise h—l, ain't he!" Hopalong snorted. "He's going to pasture on us whether we like it or not, is he? He's a land thief, that's what he is!"
"De boss ees all right!" asserted Antonio, heatedly.
"If he is he's lop-sided, but he'll be left if he banks on this play going through without a smash-up. You chase them cows home an' keep 'em there. If I find you flittin' around th' ends of th' line or herdin' on this side of it I'll give you something to nurse—an' you'll be lucky if you can nurse it. Come on, get a-going!"
Antonio waved his arm excitedly and was about to expostulate, but Hopalong cut him short by hitting him across the face with his quirt: "D—n you!" he cried, angrily. "Shut yore mouth! Get them cows going! You coffee-colored half-breed of a Greaser, I've a mind to stop you right now. Come on, get a move on!"
The Mexican's face grew livid and he tried to back away, swearing in Spanish. Stung to action by the blow, he jerked at his gun, but found Hopalong's Colt pushing against his neck.
"Drop that gun!" the Bar-20 puncher ordered, his eyes flashing. "Don't you know better'n that? We've put up with yore crowd as long as we're going to, an' th' next thing will be a slaughter if that foreman of yourn don't get some sense, an' get it sudden. Don't talk back! Just start them cows!"
The Mexican could do nothing but obey. His triumph at the success of his effort was torn with rabid hatred for the man who had struck him; but he could not fight with the Colt at his neck, and so sullenly obeyed. As they neared the line Hopalong ceased his personal remarks and, smiling grimly, turned to another topic.