The cowman fairly roared with laughter. Neither of the young men joined in his hilarious outburst. Gowan waited, cold and unsmiling. Ashton stiffened with offended dignity.
“I told you that the shooting of the animal was unintentional,” he said. “I shall settle the affair by paying you the price usually asked for veal.”
“You will?” said the cowman, looking down at the indignant tenderfoot with a twinkle in his mirth-reddened eyes. “Well, we don’t usually sell veal on the range. But I’ll let you have this yearling at cutlet prices. Fifty dollars is the figure.”
“Why, Daddy,” interrupted the girl, “half that would be––”
“On the hoof, yes; but he’s buying dressed veal,” broke in the cowman, and he smiled grimly at the culprit. “Fifty dollars is cheap for a deer hunter who goes round shooting up the country out of season. He can take his choice––pay for his veal or make a trip to the county seat.”
“That’s talking, Mr. Knowles,” approved Gowan. “We’ll corral him at Stockchute in that little log calaboose. He’ll have a peach of a time talking the jury out of sending him up for rustling.”
“This is an outrage––rank robbery!” complained Ashton. “Of course you know I will pay rather than 17 be inconvenienced by an interruption of my hunting.” He thrust his slender hand into his pocket, and drew it out empty.
“Dead broke!” jeered Gowan.
Ashton shrugged disdainfully. “I have money at my camp. If that is not enough to pay your blackmail, my valet has gone back to the railway with my guide for a remittance of a thousand dollars, which must have come on a week ago.”
“Your camp is at the waterhole on Dry Fork,” stated Knowles. “Saw a big smoke over there––tenderfoot’s fire. Well, it’s only five miles, and we can ride down that way. We’ll go to your camp.”