“No,” said Cheyne, with a twinkle in his eyes, “I’m not sure that I am. We occasionally talk a good deal more plainly in the United States cavalry.”
He passed on to the hall and Clavering went back to Torrance’s room. “We have got to get rid of that man, sir,” he said. “If we don’t, Larry will have him. Allonby had better go and worry the Bureau into sending for another two or three squadrons under a superior officer.”
Torrance sighed heavily. “I’m ’most afraid they are not going to take kindly to any more worrying,” he said. “In fact, now it’s evident how the feeling of the State is going, I have an idea they’d sooner stand in with the homestead boys. Still, we can try it, any way.”
It was about the same time that Grant flung himself wearily into a chair in the great bare room at Fremont ranch. His face was haggard, his eyes heavy, for he had spent the greater part of several anxious days and nights endeavouring to curb the headstrong passions of his followers, and riding through leagues of slushy snow.
“Will you hurry Tom up with the supper, while I look through my letters?” he said.
Breckenridge went out, and, when he came back a little while later, found Grant with a strip of paper on his knee.
“More bad news?” he asked.
Grant made no answer, but passed the strip of paper across to him, and Breckenridge’s pulses throbbed fast with anger as he read: “It is quite difficult to sit on both sides of the fence, and the boys have no more use for you. Still, there was a time when you did what you could for us, and that is why I am giving you good advice. Sit tight at Fremont, and don’t go out at nights.”
“The consumed asses!” he said. “You see what he means? They have gone after the herring Clavering drew across the trail.”
The bronze grew darker in Larry’s face, and his voice was hoarse. “Yes—they figure the cattle-men have bought me over. Well, there were points that would have drawn any man’s suspicions—the packet I would not give up to Chilton—and, as you mention, Miss Torrance’s wallet. Still, it hurts.”