“It ’ll be his funeral if he goes to foolin’ ’round them hosses,” declared Guy Isbel, peering anxiously out of the door.
“Wal, son, shore it ’ll be somebody’s funeral,” replied his father.
Jean paid but little heed to the conversation. With sharp eyes fixed upon the horsemen, he tried to grasp at their intention. Daggs pointed to the horses in the pasture lot that lay between him and the house. These animals were the best on the range and belonged mostly to Guy Isbel, who was the horse fancier and trader of the family. His horses were his passion.
“Looks like they’d do some horse stealin’,” said Jean.
“Lend me that glass,” demanded Guy, forcefully. He surveyed the band of men for a long moment, then he handed the glass back to Jean.
“I’m goin’ out there after my hosses,” he declared.
“No!” exclaimed his father.
“That gang come to steal an’ not to fight. Can’t you see that? If they meant to fight they’d do it. They’re out there arguin’ about my hosses.”
Guy picked up his rifle. He looked sullenly determined and the gleam in his eye was one of fearlessness.
“Son, I know Daggs,” said his father. “An’ I know Jorth. They’ve come to kill us. It ’ll be shore death for y’u to go out there.”