"Yes."
"With its mammy?"
"Yes."
"Serve the boy right." Tip gave judgment. "You and your outfit are getting too reckless for any use, Rafe. The territory is not a Sunday-school. You can't pick a man's pocket openly any more. It isn't safe. And you know it isn't safe. Who was the boy and what time of day was it?"
"Ben Shanklin; and it was round noon."
"Worse and more of it. My Gawd, Rafe, you gimme a pain!"
Sam Larder shook a fat-cheeked head. "Dangerous, Rafe; dangerous. You've got to consider a man's feelings now more than you used to. Haven't you told your man to always work round sunrise and sunset, and never to shoot a calf's mammy on her owner's territory?"
"Others do, and get away with it. Besides, he didn't shoot the cow."
"He might as well have shot her," declared Tom Driver. "He got caught, didn't he?"
"Ben didn't get caught. He made the riffle all right with two holes in his saddle-horn and one in his cantle that tore his pants."