Billy looked him over briefly.
"Yo're a breed, ain't yo'?" he inquired with refreshing directness. "I thought so." He turned to Buckley, with the air of ignoring Lafond altogether. "That bars him," he said, with a little laugh.
"He's got a mighty good line of broncs," Buckley objected.
"Don't care if his hosses are good," stated Billy decidedly. "He's a breed, an' that's enough. I seen plenty of that crew, and I ain't goin' to have one in the same country with me, if I can help it, let alone the same outfit."
He began to whistle and rummage in the back of the wagon, with a charming obliviousness to the presence of the subject of his remarks.
"That settles it," said Buckley, curtly and indifferently.
The half-breed, his nervous hands deep in his side-pockets, walked slowly to his horse. Then, in sudden access of rapid motion, he leaped on the animal's back and disappeared.