For you know Wyoming will be your new home.”
Sam looked around carefully, selected a flat rock at the edge of the fire, and splashed the centre of it accurately with tobacco juice. Give him a chew of tobacco as a weapon and the Texan was the champion shot of Wyoming.
His singsong voice took up the next stanza:
“Oh, you’ll be soup for Uncle Sam’s Injuns!
‘It’s beef, heap beef!’ I hear them cry.
Git along, git along, git along, little dogies,
You’re going to be beef steers by and by.”
Matson did not listen to the song. He was no longer thinking of McCoy. From the shadow where he lounged his narrowed eyes watched Yerby intently. He had not moved a muscle of his big body, but every nerve had suddenly grown taut. For he guessed now who the sixth man was that had ridden on the sheep raid. Sam’s habit of selecting a rock target for his tobacco juice had betrayed him.