“Never you mind about that,” rejoined the cowman. “Just you answer my question.”
Ashton shrugged, and replied in a bored tone: “I fail to see that it is any of your affair. But since you are so urgent to learn––I prefer to enjoy my sport before the rush of the open season.”
“Don’t you know it’s against the law?” exclaimed the girl.
“Ah––as to that, a trifling fine––” drawled the hunter, again shrugging.
“Humph!” grunted Knowles. “A fine might get you off for deer. Shooting stock, though, is a penitentiary offense––when the criminal is lucky enough to get into court.”
“Criminal!” repeated Ashton, flushing. “I have explained who I am. My father could buy out this entire cattle country, and never know it. I’ll do it myself, some day, and turn the whole thing into a game preserve.”
“When you do,” warned Gowan, “you’d better hunt a healthier climate.”
“What we’re concerned with now,” interposed Knowles, “is this yearling.”
“The live or the dead one, Daddy?” asked the girl, her cheeks dimpling.
“What d’you––Aw––haw! haw! haw!––The 16 live or the dead one! Catch that, Kid? The live or the dead one! Haw! haw! haw!”