“We have their address,” answered Jerry, good-naturedly.
“What!” exclaimed Mr. Munson in real or simulated surprise. “Are you bothered with cattle raids here, too?”
“Sure. Haven’t you heard about it?” answered Mr. Watson. “But I forgot, you just arrived.”
“They’re a pest—those rustlers,” declared the Parson.
“They’re worse than that,” came from Gimp. “You never know when they’re going to hit you—it’s like the toothache. And they’re such ornery critters. Too lazy to do an honest man’s work, they make the other fellow work for ’em. I’d like to get a bunch of ’em within reach of my gun,” and he tapped his big revolver significantly.
“Cattle rustlers, eh?” said Mr. Munson, musingly. “I’m sorry to hear that. It may interfere with my business,” though he did not say in what way. “I heard rumors in several places where I stopped that they were up to their old tricks,” he resumed, “but I supposed you ranchmen had organized to drive them out of business.”
“We did once,” said Mr. Watson. “Back in ninety-two, when some of the small settlers around here got so bold in their cattle rustling that they’d run a herd off under your nose, we formed a small army, and started to round up the suspects.”
“That was the Johnson County Raid, wasn’t it?” asked Ned.
“Yes. But how’d you know?” the foreman questioned.
“I read about it,” Ned replied.