“Huh!” said Mark, grunting a little cloud of smoke from the bowl of his pipe in his sarcastic vehemence.
“And so am I,” continued Chadron, unmoved. “Words between us would be a waste of time.”
“You’re right; money talks,” said Mark.
“It’s a man’s job, or I wouldn’t have called you out of your hole to do it,” said Chadron, watching the man slyly for the effect.
“Pay me in money,” suggested Mark, unwarmed by the compliment. “Is it nesters ag’in?”
“Nesters,” nodded the cattleman, drawing his great brows in a frown. “They’re crowdin’ in so thick right around me that I can’t breathe comfortable any more; the smell of ’em’s in the wind. They’re runnin’ over three of the biggest ranches up here besides the Alamito, and the Drovers’ Association wants a little of your old-time holy scare throwed into the cussed coyotes.”
Mark nodded in the pause which seemed to have been made for him to nod, and Chadron went on.
“We figger that if a dozen or two of ’em’s cleaned out, quick and mysterious, the rest’ll tuck tail and sneak. It’s happened that way in other places more 6 than once, as you and I know. Well, you’re the man that don’t have to take lessons.”
“Money talks,” repeated Mark, still looking into the chimney.
“There’s about twenty of them that counts, the rest’s the kind you can drive over a cliff with a whip. These fellers has strung their cussed bob-wire fences crisscross and checkerboard all around there up the river, and they’re gittin’ to be right troublesome. Of course they’re only a speck up there yet, but they’ll multiply like fleas on a hot dog if we let ’em go ahead. You know how it is.”