“If I had a boy like Jack, I’ll be —— if I’d turn him down because his wife’s father favored mutton instead of beef,” he continued. “Now that we’ve all agreed that Marsh Hartwell is seventeen kinds of a —— fool, let’s get back to the business at hand.”
Marsh Hartwell glared at Hodges, his jaw muscles jerking.
“If you wasn’t a cripple, Sam——”
“But I am, Marsh.” The old man chuckled throatily, as he sucked on his pipe. “I wish I wasn’t, but I am.”
“All of which don’t settle our questions,” observed Slim Larimore impatiently.
“No, and it don’t look to me like there was any use of talkin’ any further.”
Thus Frank Hall, of the 404, a dumpy, little old cowman, with an almost-round head. He got to his feet, as if the meeting was over.
“There’s only one thing to do: Shove every —— rider we’ve got along that dead-line and kill every sheep and sheepherder that crosses it.”
“That looks like the only reasonable thing to do,” nodded Marsh Hartwell, looking around the room. “Are we all agreed on that?”
Sudden Smithy, the sheriff, got to his feet.