“Did yuh?” says Hashknife. “Your thoughts are like your talk, Bowers—kinda suckin’ mud. What’s it any of the sheriff’s business?”
“I dunno. Say, Baldy Willis died this mornin’.”
“——!” says Windy, soft-like. “Poor old Baldy.”
“Uh-huh,” admits Bowers. “But it’s just like I said—he didn’t have no danged business on this range, nohow. When a feller has been warned to keep off——”
“Let your voice fall, Blubber,” says Windy. “You’ve talked enough. Sabe? Me nor none of this outfit had anything to do with killin’ Baldy, and the next hombre what insinuates that we did is goin’ kihootin’ to his God or beat me on the draw. That goes for you, the sheriff or any of that cow-stealin’ Bar 20 outfit. Sabe?”
“Honest to —— I ain’t insinuatin’ nothin’” wails Bowers. “Whatcha ridin’ me fer? I’ve lost twenty-seven head of cows in the last week, and I ain’t——”
“Yo’re all packed, wired and billed for shipment—git off this ranch!” yowls Windy. “I don’t care if somebody steals all your cows! I hope they do. I hope you’re the last calf they slickears. I hope they slaps every brand in the State register on your hide and then adds a dewlap and notches your ears.”
“That ain’t no way to talk,” grumbles Blubber, tearful-like. “I try to git along and——”
“You better do somethin’ besides try to git along,” says Windy. “You just ‘get along,’ Bowers, and get along fast.”
Bowers swings his horse around and points toward home.