"Nope," responded Pecos, "jest up the trail a piece."
A shadow crossed the Boss's face—Upton's was "up the trail a piece"—but he did not follow that lead.
"Know any of them irons?" he inquired, pointing to the sand-drawings, which represented half the big brands between the Panhandle and the Gila.
"Sure thing," replied the cowboy, "I've run 'em."
"And burnt 'em, too, eh?" put in Crittenden, shrewdly; but Pecos Dalhart was not as young as he looked.
"Not on your life," he countered, warily, "that don't go where I come from."
"Of course not, of course not," assented the cowman, instantly affecting a bluff honesty, "and it don't go here, neither, if any one should inquire. A man's brand is his property and he's got a right to it under the law. I've got a few cows here myself—brand IC on the ribs—and I'd like to see the blankety-blank that would burn it. I'd throw 'em in the pen, if it was the last act. Where you travellin'?"
He jerked this out as a sort of challenge, and the cowboy rose to his feet.
"Upton's," he said briefly.