"Let him down easy!" exploded the cattleman. "When he's just pulled off a raw deal by which I lose a bunch of forty fat three-year-olds. I ought to have gunned him in his tracks."
"If you had proof, but you haven't. It's a right doubtful policy for a man to stir up a rattler till it's crazy, then to turn it loose in his bedroom."
The Missourian turned to the business of the hour. "We'll get a posse out after the rustlers right away. Dad. I'll see the boys an' you hustle up some rifles and ammunition."
Half an hour later they saw the dust of the cowpunchers taking the trail for the berrendo.
"I'll ride down an' get Billie Prince started after 'em. I can go with his posse as a deputy," suggested the ranchman.
To save Webb's time, Dad rode a few miles with him while the cattleman outlined to him the policy he wanted pursued.
The sun was high in the heavens when they met, not far from Ten Sleep, a rider. The cattleman looked at him grimly. In the Washington County War just ended, this young fellow had been the leading gunman of the Snaith-McRobert faction. If the current rumors were true he was now making an easy living in the chaparral.
The rider drew up, nodded a greeting to Wrayburn, and grinned with cool nonchalance at Webb. He knew from report in what esteem he was held by the owner of the Flying V Y brand.
"Yankie up at the ranch?" he asked.
"What do you want with him?" demanded Webb brusquely.