The word of those letters was law to her. If they had said “ship” in December, she would have tried to do so.
Now she was out on Bluefire from dawn to dark herself, and there was little or nothing escaped her eyes. She knew to a nicety how many yearlings were on the slopes of Mystery, the number of weaning calves, the steers that were ready for shipping and those that were not.
When Provine carried her Bossick’s message verbatim the red flush of anger rose in her face again and she struck the stallion a vicious cut with her quirt.
Bluefire rose on his hind legs, pawing, and shook his head in rage, the wild blood struggling with the tame in him.
“If Bossick ever speaks to you again,” said Kate, “you tell him to go to hell, and that Kate Cathrew said so.”
“I did,” said Basford, grinning, “and Sud objected.”
“Where’s your allegiance to Sky Line?” she asked Provine instantly, “must Basford show you loyalty?”
“I can show him discretion,” said Provine, evenly, “an’ hit don’t take much brains to see that. Do you want these ranchers t’ begin ridin’ hard on us—nights, for instance, an’ now?”
Kate frowned and tapped her boot.
“The devil his due,” she said presently, “you’re right, Provine,” and turned away.