"Where'd you find the bull, Scott?" asked John.
"First located him on Fire Mesa. Been round about considerable since."
"Whose bull is it now?" Charleton Falkner pushed Democrat toward the fence.
"Mine!" Scott spoke shortly, his freckled face unmoved.
"Do you think it was worth the price?" demanded Spencer.
Scott looked searchingly at the crowd before him. The steer John was holding had been dehorned but not seared. The blood had run down the brute's white face and formed a crimson icicle on its under lip. John had run his fingers through his ashen hair, leaving it blood-smeared. Charleton was lighting a blood-stained cigarette with the hot searing-iron. Judith pounded her half-frozen ringers together.
"What price did I pay?" asked Scott.
"Doug," commanded John, "you tell your story."
Douglas, with considerable embarrassment and assisted by Judith, told of their trip with the mail stage. Scott listened with little apparent interest. He said nothing when the story was done.
"It's like this, Scott," said John. "It looks like you killed him. You've got a bad temper. So had Oscar. You fought for over a year about that fool bull, first one of you branding it, then the other. You're young and you'd better give yourself up. You'll stand a better chance."