“That kind of talk ain’t helpin’ you any,” the foreman said. “If you got any sense, you’ll shut yore trap an’ take what’s comin’.”
“I’ll take it. Don’t youse worry about that. You’d better kill me while youse are on the job, for I’ll get you, too, sure as I’m a mont’ old.”
Reed drove up in the old car he used for a runabout. He killed the engine, stepped down, and came up to the group by the porch.
“See you rounded ’em up, Lon.”
“Yep. Found ’em in the cottonwoods acrost the track at Wild Horse.”
The ranchman’s dominant eyes found Tug. “Howcome you here?” he asked.
The gay-cat looked at him in sullen, resentful silence. The man’s manner stirred up in the tramp a flare of opposition.
“Dusty brought him here. I want to tell you about that, Dad,” the girl said.
“Later.” He turned to Tug. “I want a talk with you—got a proposition to make you. See you later.”
“Not if I see you first,” the ragged nomad replied insolently. “I never did like bullies.”