Murder from the Chaparral
Webb was just leaving for one of his ranches lower down the river when a horseman galloped up. The alkali dust was caked on his unshaven face and the weary bronco was dripping with sweat.
The owner of the Flying V Y, giving some last instructions to the foreman, turned to listen to the sputtering rider.
"They—they done run off that bunch of beeves on the berrendo," he explained, trembling with excitement.
"Who?"
"I don't know. A bunch of rustlers. About a dozen of 'em. They tried to kill me."
Webb turned to Yankie. "You didn't leave this man alone overnight with that bunch of beeves for Major Strong?"
"Sure I did. Why not?" demanded the foreman boldly.
"We'll not argue that," said the boss curtly, "Go hunt you another job.
You'll draw yore last pay-check from the Flying V Y to-day."
"If you're loaded up with a notion that some one else could do better—"