“You’ve had other offers, ain’t you?” asked Sleepy.
“Yeah. Spot Easton offered me seventy-five hundred.”
“That don’t noways include the stock, does it?” queried Hashknife.
“No. Just the ranch-house and what fenced ground goes with it. When Spot made that offer I reckon I had about seven hundred head of 33 cows on this range, but right now a 33 critter is as scarce as vi’lets in Jan’wary.”
“Well, gee cripes!” exploded Hashknife, stamping his feet on the floor. “You mean to stand there and tell me that you let somebody run off all your stock?”
“Well, I—I didn’t ‘let’ ’em, Hashknife. ’Pears that you don’t have to let folks rustle your cows.”
“Ain’t you complained none?”
“Who’d I complain to?”
“That’s a question,” admitted Hashknife. “I reckon you’ll just about have to sell out, Bliz.”
“—— if I will! No gosh danged bunch of——”