“Best get a look at them beasties fust,” said Joe, in a harsh tone, and with an unmistakable laugh.
“Yep,” sniggered Dutchy, with an insolent look into Jim’s face.
The studied insult of both the men was so apparent that all eyes were turned curiously upon the foreman. For Jim Thorpe was popular. More than popular. He was probably the best-liked man on the range. Then, too, Jim, in their experience, was never one to take things “lying down.”
His dark, clear brows drew ominously together, and his eyes narrowed unpleasantly.
“Say, the sun’s hurt you some, boys, hasn’t it?” he asked sharply. Then he went on rapidly, his teeth clipping with each sentence: “See here, get right up to my shack. I’ll take that report. And I don’t need any talk about it. Get me?”
But though the men remained silent the insolence of their eyes answered him. Dutchy slung his saddle over his shoulder and stood while Joe picked up his belongings. And in those moments his eyes unflinchingly fixed his foreman, and a smile, an infuriating smile of contempt, slowly broke over his heavy Teutonic features.
It was too much for Jim. He pointed at his shack. “Hustle!” he cried.
But before the men had time to move away, two of the boys, who had elected to obey their comrade’s suggestion, came running up from the corral.
“Say, boss,” cried Barney, excitedly, “get a peek at their brands!”