The scout, still keeping the business end of the revolver unswervingly upon Red Steve, debated the situation in his mind.
“How did Benner manage to get hold of you, Nate?” he inquired.
“I was out looking for strayed or stolen cattle,” said Dunbar, “when half a dozen of Benner’s men jumped me. It was in a dry wash, and the whelps rolled down on me so quick I couldn’t do a thing. It was yesterday this happened, and I was lugged to this dugout and left in the hands of Red Steve.”
“As scoundrelly a game as was ever played,” declared the scout, “and it doesn’t speak very well for the cattlemen in these parts.”
“These are flush days on this part of the range,” went on Dunbar; “anything with horns, hoofs and hide comes pretty near being worth its weight in gold. All the barons on the Brazos are rich, and Perry would be worth quite a pile if the rest of the ranchers would only let him and his stock alone. It ought to be stopped. By thunder, it’s a disgrace the way Perry is being treated.”
“You’re right,” said the scout, “this hectoring ought to be stopped. I’ve a notion to bear a hand and help you and Perry put an end to the lawless situation.”
A scornful laugh broke from Red Steve’s lips.
“You fellers ’u’d play hob puttin’ a kink in this game o’ the cattle barons,” he taunted. “The’s half a dozen of ’em an’ two or three hunnerd cowboys. Oh, yes, ye’ll play hob stoppin’ ’em!”
A look of fierce helplessness crossed Nate Dunbar’s face.
“If we can’t stop the lawless work,” he cried desperately, “there are still bushes at the trailside where a man can lurk and pick off some of the demons who’re causing this trouble.”