Presently some one in the rear of the car lowered a newspaper, and rumbled over the top of it:
"You fellers rec’lect old man Quinn?"
Some did; some did not. To the latter, the speaker explained.
"Used to live in Cody. Friend of Buffalo Bill, old man Quinn was. Went down to Oklahomy five years ago, and bought a sheep ranch. He and some of the cattlemen around him got by the ears over how much of the range belonged to the sheep––"
Here an inarticulate murmur sounded through the car. There was a "cattle war" on in Wyoming at that time.
"Wall, one night two years ago about now, after a big round-up at North Fork, one thousand of old man Quinn’s sheep was driven over the bluffs into North Fork River. All that old man Quinn could find out was that four men done it. But he kept a-tryin’ to find out, and got a detective down from Kansas City, feller who used to be a cow puncher himself; and he nabbed three of ’em. They had had the gall to stay right there on the range all this time."
"Good reason," volunteered some one, "why it took so long to land ’em. I suppose old man Quinn was lookin’ for ’em among the punchers that had left after the round-up."
"Jest so," declared the informant. "He was tryin’ to track up every one who cleared out after the round-up–jest so."
"How long did they git?" asked some one further up the aisle.
"Two years."