“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!” howled Honey Wier. “Better’n a circus!”
Cliff Vane glared at Hashknife, but said nothing more. Marsh Hartwell turned to the other cattlemen,
“Boys, if this tale is true, and I reckon it is, we’re up against a stiff proposition. The rustlers have likely shoved a lot of our stock half way to Medicine Tree by this time, and they know that we don’t dare desert this dead-line.
“None of us have a title to enough of this range to stop the sheep from occupying it, except by force. We can’t fence against ’em. Now it’s just a question of two evils —sheep or the loss of our cattle. There’s at least nine of the rustlers. If we even match numbers with ’em, it’ll weaken our line badly. Now, what’s to be done?”
The cattlemen shook their heads. Old Sam Hodges dug savagely into the dirt with his cane, and turned to the soberfaced group.
“Boys,” he said slowly, “we’ve mistrusted Hartley and Stevens, and we’ve done our darndest to mistreat ’em. Right now some of yuh still think they’re crooked. Yeah, yuh do. But just to show yuh how I feel about it, I’m suggestin’ that we ask Hartley what to do about this proposition—and foller his idea.”
“I’ll tell yuh how I ——” began Vane, but Honey Wier interrupted him with,
“Oh, you be ——ed! We know how you stand, Cliff.”
“I’m satisfied to do that,” said Marsh Hartwell slowly.
“Same here,” laughed Hall. “That skinny cowpuncher don’t look crooked to me. Hop to it, long feller.”