"It's not yore ability I object to, Yankie" cut in the ranchman.
"Say, what are you insinuatin'?" snarled the segundo.
"Not a thing, Yankie. I'm tellin' you to yore face that I think you're a crook. One of these days I'm goin' to land you behind the bars at Santa Fé. No, don't make another pass like that, Joe. I'll sure beat you to it."
Wrayburn had ridden up and now asked the foreman a question about some calves.
"Don't ask me. Ask yore boss," growled Yankie, his face dark with fury.
"Don't ask me either," said Webb. "You're foreman of this ranch, Dad."
"Since when?" asked the old Confederate.
"Since right this minute. I've fired Yankie."
Dad chewed his cud of tobacco without comment. He knew that Webb would tell him all he needed to know.
"Says I'm a waddy! Says I'm a crook!" burst out the deposed foreman.
"Wish you joy of yore job, Wrayburn. You'll have one heluva time."