"Yours an' mine."
"You've been gone forty-eight hours. The rest of us have worked our heads off gettin' together the herd. I reckon you can explain why you weren't with us."
Yellow with dust, unshaven, mud caked in his hair, hands torn by the cat-claw, Homer Webb was red-eyed from lack of sleep and from the irritation of the alkali powder. This young rider had broken the first law of the cowpuncher, to be on the job in time of trouble and to stay there as long as he could back a horse. The owner of the Flying V Y was angry clear through at his desertion and he intended to let the boy know it.
"I went out to look for Peg-Leg Warren" said Clanton apologetically.
Webb stopped in his stride. "You did? Who told you to do that?"
"I didn't need to be told. I've got horse sense myself." Jim spoke a little sulkily. He knew that he ought to have stayed with his employer.
"Well, what did you do when you found Peg-Leg—make him a visit for a couple of days?" demanded the drover with sarcasm.
"No, I don't know him well enough to visit—only well enough to shoot at."
"What's that?" asked Webb sharply.
"Think I was goin' to let 'em plug Tim McGrath an' get away with it?" snapped Jim.