"I don't care whose mount he belongs to!" snarled the ex-straw-boss, dragging the horse out by the neck. "You top hands mash yore ear all night and let my hawses drift—and then expect me to walk. You bet yore boots that don't go—I'll take the best I can find. You can't put me afoot!"
"I'll put you on yore back," rumbled Brigham, dropping truculently down from his perch, "if you try to git gay with me. You may be from Bitter Crick, Texas, but you got to whip me before you break into my mount!"
"Well, he's got the Bat Wing brand on 'im," sulked Atkins; "that's all I know. And as long as they's a hawse left in the remuda——"
"Here, here!" said Henry Lee, walking in on the squabble. "What's all this about? What are you doing with Brig's hawse, Hardy? Why don't you ride your own?"
"Well, these hyer nester kids and Mormons went to sleep on guard and let my top hawses pull—now I got nothin' but bronks to ride!"
"Well, ride 'em, then!" commanded Henry Lee severely. "And, another thing, Mr. Atkins! Next time you've got a grievance, come to me—don't try to correct it yourself!"
He regarded his former straw-boss with narrowing eyes, and Atkins roped out a bronk; but in the evening he took the first occasion to pick a quarrel with Brigham. They were gathered about the fire in the scant hour between branding and first guard, and Brigham was telling a story. As was his custom, Henry Lee had pitched his tent to one side, for he never mixed with his men; and Brig had the stage to himself.
"Well, you fellers talk about gittin' lost," he was saying; "you ought to be up in that Malapai country. We had a land-sharp along—claimed to know the world by sections—and he——"
"Aw, what do you know about the Malapai country?" broke in Atkins rudely. "You cain't even lead a circle on the Black Mesa and git back to camp the same day! My hawse give out this mornin' tryin' to——"
"Say," interposed Brigham peaceably, "you know what the boss said this mornin'—if you got any grievance, tell it to him. I'm tellin' these gentlemen a story."