"Don't see it that way," persisted McNair. "Wouldn't give a continental if I did so long's it woke a few people up."
"I tell you you're on the wrong trail unless you want to get it where the chicken got the axe!"
"Doggone it, man! Ain't that where we're gettin' it now?"
"Whereas with the right kind of organization——"
"Don't believe it," grunted McNair, starting to climb back to his horse. "The time for any more o' these here granny tea-parties is past to my way o' thinkin' an' if we can't agree on it, we'd better shut up before we get mad." He vaulted easily into the saddle. "But I'll tell you one thing, W. R.—there's the sweetest little flare-up you ever saw on its way. I was talkin' the other day to Ed. Partridge, the Railton boys, Al. Quigley, Billy Bonner and some more——"
"And I'll bet they gave you a lot of sound advice, Mac!" laughed
Motherwell confidently.
"That's alright," resented McNair, the tan of his cheek deepening a trifle. "They're a pretty sore bunch an' a fellow from down Turtle Mountain way in Manitoba told me——"
"That the mud-turtle and the jack-rabbit finally agreed that slow and steady——"
"Bah! You're sure hopeless," grinned the owner of the Two-Bar, giving his horse the rein.
"Hope_ful_," corrected W. R. Motherwell with a laugh. "Tell Wilson, if you see him, that Peter Dayman and I are expecting him over next week, will you? And I say, Mac, don't kill too many before you get home!" he called in final jocularity.