"Shore, it is," responded Towne, forgetting the game. "Take that Apache Hills run-in. Waffles did n't have no more right to that range than anybody else, but that did n't make no difference. He threw a couple of outfits in there, penned us in th' cabin, killed MacKay, an' shot th' rest of us up plenty. Then he threatened to slaughter our herd if we did n't pull out. By God, I 'd like to get a cowman like him up here, where th' tables are turned around on th' friends proposition."
"Hullo, boys!" remarked the bartender to the pair who came in.
"Just in time. Get chairs, an' take hands," invited Clayton, moving over.
"Who's th' cowman yo're talkin' about?" asked Baxter, as he leaned lazily against the bar.
"Oh, all of 'em," rejoined Towne surlily. "There 's one in town, now, who don't like sheep."
"That so?" queried Baxter slowly. "I reckon he better keep his mouth shut, then."
"Oh, he 's all right! He 's a jolly old geezer," assured the bartender. "He just talks to hear hisself—one of them old-timers what can't get right to th' way things has changed on th' range. It was them boys that did great work when th' range was wild."
"Yes, an' it's them bull-headed old fools what are raisin' all th' hell with th' sheep," retorted Towne, frowning darkly as he remembered some of the indignities he had borne at the hands of cowmen.
"I wish his name was Waffles." Clayton smiled significantly.
"Rainin' again," remarked a man in the doorway, stamping in. "Reckon it ain't never goin' to stop."