“Bad,” responded the ranger.
“The chief has been dismissed and all the rascals are chuckling with glee. I’ve resigned from the service.”
Wetherford was aghast. “What for?”
“I will not serve under any other chief. The best thing for you to do is to go out when I do. I think by keeping on that uniform you can get to the train with me.”
“Did you see Lize and my girl?”
“No, I only remained in town a minute. It was too hot for me. I’m done with it. Wetherford, I’m going back to civilization. No more wild West for me.” The bitterness of his voice touched the older man’s heart, but he considered it merely a mood.
“Don’t lose your nerve; mebbe this ends the reign of terror.”
“Nothing will end the moral shiftlessness of this country but the death of the freebooter. You can’t put new wine into old bottles. These cattle-men, deep in their hearts, sympathize with the wiping-out of those sheep-herders. The cry for justice comes from the man whose ear is not being chewed—the man far off—and from the town-builder who knows the State is being hurt by such atrocities; but the ranchers over on Deer Creek will conceal the assassins—you know that. You’ve had experience with these free-grass warriors; you know what they are capable of. That job was done by men who hated the dagoes—hated ’em because they were rival claimants for the range. It’s nonsense to attempt to fasten it on men like Neill Ballard. The men who did that piece of work are well-known stock-owners.”
“I reckon that’s so.”