"You know a whole lot, don't you?" snorted Clayton, with sarcasm. "Yo 're shore wise, you are!"
"He is so vise as a—a gow," remarked Schultz, grinning.
"You 'll know more, when you get as old as me," replied the ex-foreman, carefully placing the empty glass on the bar.
"I don't want to get as old as you, if I have to lose all my common sense," retorted Clayton angrily.
"An' be a damned nuisance generally," observed Towne.
"I 've seen a lot of things in my life," Youbet began, trying to ignore the tones of the others. They were young men, and he knew that youth grew unduly heated in argument. "I saw th' comin' of th' Texas drive herds, till th' range was crowded where th' year before there was nothin'. I saw th' comin' of th' sheep—an' barb' wire, I 'm sorry to say. Th' sheep came like locusts, leavin' a dyin' range behind 'em. Thin, half-starved cattle showed which way they went. You can't tell me nothin' I don't know about sheep."
"An' I 've seen sheep dyin' in piles on th' open range," cried Clayton, his own wrongs lashing him into a rage. "I 've seen 'em dynamited, an' drowned and driven hell-to-split over canyons! I 've had my men taunted, an' chased, an' killed—killed, by God!—just because they tried to make a' honest livin'! Who did it all? Who killed my men an' my sheep? Who did it?" he shouted, taking a short step forward, while an endorsing growl ran along the line of sheepmen at his side.
"Cowpunchers—they did it! They killed 'em—an' why? Because we tried to use th' grass that we had as much right to as they had—that 's why!"
"Th' cows was here first," replied Youbet, keenly alert, but not one whit abashed by the odds, long as they were. "It was theirs because they was there first."
"It was not theirs, no more'n th' sun was!" cried Towne, unable to allow his chief to do all the talking.