“Damn it, man!” called Del Williams to him, approaching him after one more chase after a wisp of stragglers. “I’d think you could ’tend to your own end part ways somehow!”
It was the first time he had spoken to Dalhart in days. Their enmity was smoldering.
“I don’t need any help from anybody about handling cows,” retorted the other; “least of all from you.”
Del Williams rode straight up to him at what seemed a challenge.
“I don’t see you for no cowman, myself,” said he.
They sat face to face midway of the dry river bed.
“I want to know what you mean,” said Dalhart. “I’ve been as good a hand on this trail as you have.”
“I don’t think so. Nothing but luck kept you from drownding that girl crossing the Red. More than that, it was you that let logs come through the cattle when they was swimming the day before. That started the mill. Four hundred cows lost and two men drownded. You was upriver side of the herd.”
This was mortal affront, as Del Williams was willing that it should be. At the time both men were unarmed.
“You know I won’t stand that,” said Dalhart.