Hobson started.
"What are you getting at?" he asked with a grin, but with an uneasy glance at Sheriff Walton. "Who's leaving irons about?"
Ted produced the article.
"This should be in your care," he said, showing it. Hobson held out his hand eagerly. Ted drew the iron out of reach.
"No," he said; "I think we'll keep it now. The sheriff wants it for evidence should anything crop up. It's my belief that next round-up'll show a few things in the way of colts being missed."
Hobson paled, his face working nervously.
"Give it to me," he shouted, with a poor attempt at anger. Ted's lips curled scornfully.
"It's not mine to give," he said. "Ask Walton here; perhaps he will, though I don't think so. By the way, he says a carload of colts were shipped off lately, bearing the brand of this ranch. Know anything about them?"
A sound like a snarl burst from the foreman's lips. He whipped his hand to his belt, but Ted had him covered with his own revolver first.
"Don't get mad like that," he said. "I only asked you a question. Come, now! Put your hand away from your belt! You're not my boss now, I'll have you know!"