"Somebody may be coming," suggested Dick.
"I'll show you fellers wot's wrong!" cried a rough voice, and through the brushwood close by there crashed a broncho, on top of which rode a rough-looking cowboy, wearing a red shirt and a big slouch hat. "Who went and shot that steer?"
"I did," answered Dick. "Was he yours?"
"He was, and you had no right to touch him," growled the cowboy.
"Didn't I, though?" said Dick. "Are you aware that he came close to hurting us? He charged full tilt at my brother's horse."
"Stuff and fairy tales, boy. That steer was all right. He broke away from the drove, but he wouldn't hurt a flea."
"We know better," put in Tom.
"If my brother hadn't killed him, he would probably have killed my horse, and maybe me," added Sam.
"Somebody has got to pay for the damage done," growled the cowboy.
"I am not going to stand for it, not me, so sure as my name is Jim
Jones." And he shook his head determinedly.
"Well, Mr. Jones, I am sorry I had to kill your steer, but it had to be done, and that is all there is to it," said Dick calmly.