"Nit," said Smoky. "I heard a shot," he added. "'Twas the old man. I'd know the crack of his Sharp anywheres. 'Tis the dead spit o' mine. There'll be buck's liver for supper sure."
"Why are you carryin' a gun?"
"I thought I might run acrost a deer."
"No other reason?"
Beneath her steady glance his blue eyes fell. He replied with restraint--
"I wouldn't trust some o' these squatters any further than I could sling a bull by the tail. Your Pap had any more trouble with 'em?"
Mintie answered savagely:--
"They're a-huntin' trouble. Likely as not they'll find it, too."
Smoky grinned. Being the son of an old settler, he held squatters in detestation. Of late years they had invaded the foothills. Pap Ransom was openly at feud with them. They stole his cattle, cut his fences, and one of them, Jake Farge, had dared to take up a claim inside the old man's back-pasture.
Smoky stared at Mintie. Then he said abruptly--