"Sho! The kid's got good stuff in him. An' nobody could ask for a squarer pal than Billie Prince. You know that yore own self."
"You heard what I said, Dad. The Flyin' V Y horses don't take the back trail to-day," insisted the foreman stubbornly.
The wrinkled eyes of Wrayburn narrowed a little. He looked straight at
Yankie.
"Don't get biggety, Joe. I'm not askin' you or any other man whether I can ride to rescue a friend when he's in trouble. You don't own these broncs, an' if you did we'd take 'em just the same."
The voice of Wrayburn was still gentle, but it no longer pleaded for understanding. The words were clean-cut and crisp.
"I'll show you!" flung back the foreman with an oath.
When the little group of cavalry was gathered for the start, Yankie, rifle in hand, barred the way. His face was ugly with the fury of his anger.
Dad Wrayburn rode forward in front of his party. "Don't git promiscuous with that cannon of yours, Joe. You've done yore level best to keep us here. But we're goin' just the same. We-all will tell the old man how tender you was of his remuda stock. That will let you out."
"Don't you come another step closeter, Dad Wrayburn!" the foreman shouted. "I'll let you know who is boss here."
Wrayburn did not raise his voice. The drawl in it was just as pronounced, but every man present read in it a warning.