Cockney was in a vile humour—that always came with his craving for town; and his wife's wet eyes had not improved matters.
"Don't forget, Dakota," he said, with deadly calmness, "it's only a third. I provided all the capital."
"And don't you forget, Mister Aikens, that I purvided all the experience—and I'm still purviding it, far's anyone can notice—and all the work and the worry. You better go and get drunk. We don't need you. We got real work to do."
Cockney restrained himself.
"What are you on now?" he enquired.
Dakota's eyes fell. He turned about and looked back toward the cook-house.
"Oh, nothing special; just the usual rush. This time it's a lot of riding, looking up a bunch of mavericks that uv been kicking up the devil. Missed 'em in the round-up and they've got chirpy."
"You're sure they're ours?"
Dakota swung on him angrily.
"What the h—l you mean? Think I'm rustling? Shore they're ours. They've gone rampaging down Irvine way with a little bunch of steers that broke from the nighthawks a couple of days ago."