"Was you ever an auctioneer," calmly asked Hopalong, "or a book agent?"
"What's that got to do with it?" Meeker demanded. "You heard what I said."
"I don't know nothing about yore broncho-buster, taking one thing at a time, which is proper."
"What! You didn't drive him out, or cut him?"
"No; why?" asked Hopalong, chuckling.
"He says you did—an' somebody quirted him."
"He's loco—he wasn't in th' valley," Hopalong replied. "Think he could get in that valley? Him, or any other man we didn't want in?"
"You're devilish funny!" retorted Meeker, riding slowly forward, followed by his companion, who began to edge away from his foreman. "Since you are so exact, did you chase him off yore range an' push him over th' line at th' point of yore gun?"
"You've got me. Better not come too close—my cayuse don't like gettin' crowded."
"That's all right," Meeker retorted, not heeding the warning. "Do you mean to tell me you don't know? Yore name's Cassidy, ain't it?" he asked, angrily, his determination to avoid fighting rapidly becoming lost.