"Say, missie," he exclaimed in a high-pitched nasal voice, "it ain't no use in talkin', ye kent put no tenderfoot t' boss the round-up. There's them all-fired Donoghue lot jest sent right in t' say, 'cause, I s'pose, they reckon as they're the high muck-i-muck o' this location, that that tarnation Sim Lory, thar head man, is to cap' the round-up. Why, he ain't cast a blamed foot on the prairie sence he's been hyar. An' I'll swear he don't know the horn o' his saddle from a monkey stick. Et ain't right, missie, an' us fellers t' work under him an' all."
His address came to an abrupt end, and he gave emphasis to his words by a prolonged expectoration. Jacky, her eyes sparkling with anger, was quick to reply.
"Look you here, Silas, just go right off and throw your saddle on your pony—"
"Guess it's right thar, missie," the man interrupted.
"Then sling off as fast as your plug can lay foot to the ground, and give John Allandale's compliments to Jim Donoghue and say, if they don't send a capable man, since they've been appointed to find the 'captain,' he'll complain to the Association and insist on the penalty being enforced. What, do they take us for a lot of 'gophers'? Sim Lory, indeed; why, he's not fit to prise weeds with a two tine hay fork."
The men went off hurriedly. Their mistress's swift methods of dealing with matters pleased them. Silas was more than pleased to be able to get a "slant" (to use his own expression) at his old enemy, Sim Lory. As the men departed "Poker" John came and stood beside his niece.
"What's that about Sim Lory, Jacky?"
"They've sent him to run this 'round-up.'"
"And?"
"Oh, I just told them it wouldn't do," indifferently.