"What are you intending to do with that club?" Sercomb demanded.
"That depends on what you're trying to do to that car," answered Matt.
"This is my property and the car has no business here. We want this place for the other machine."
"Then leave the barn and I'll run the machine out. I don't allow any one to fool with that car."
"There ain't one of us," struck in Mings, "that don't know more about a car in a minute than you do in a year."
"That may be," said Matt, "but I'm boss of the Red Flier, all the same."
"I've heard about you, King," went on Mings. "Dace Perry, of Denver, is a friend of mine, and he told me just what kind of a four-flusher you are—always sticking your nose into other people's business, same as now."
"Glad to hear Perry has a friend," returned Matt amiably, "but he could have told you a whole lot that I guess he thought he hadn't better."
Just then Carl and Ferral flocked into the barn.