“Wants to take the huntin’ himself, that feller does,” grumbled Yank, “an’ leaves us other fellers to hoof it. Who ever heard of an assistant wagon boss havin’ to walk? I didn’t hire out to walk, you bet.” And he yelped out to Joel: “Hurry on your bulls there, you lead team man. Give ’em the gad or you’ll get stuck.” For the head of the train had reached a sandy hollow, and Joel’s team were tugging through it. The sand rolled in a stream from the tires and from half way up the spokes; but the twelve bulls――the ten blacks, and the two burly reds forming the pole yoke――were pulling together nobly. “They don’t need it,” returned Joel, shortly. “They’re doing well. Let ’em alone.” “You’ve held the lead so long and done as you please that you’ve got sassy,” sneered Yank. “You need a new boss, an’ now you’ve got him, see? I tell you to hustle those fat pets o’ yourn along an’ give somebody else a chance in here. Do you call that pullin’? Which way you movin’? Touch ’em up, my man; touch ’em up.” “I’m driving this team,” answered Joel, roundly, “and I don’t need advice from any assistant wagon master as to _how_ to drive. They pull better without the lash.” And he sung out vigorously: “Buck! Muley! Hep, now! Hep with you!” The wagon moved steadily, ploughing through the sand and encouraging the teams behind. But Joel’s reply seemed to enrage Yank――who had been waiting for just such a chance. “Oh, gimme that whip!” he snarled, and snatched it from Joel’s hand. “Get out o’ there with you!” he yelled. The lash flew hissing; the snapper landed with a distinct “thut!” on the haunch of the right lead ox; it jerked smartly back and out-sprang at the spot where it had struck a rim of blood on the sweaty, dusty black hide. The whip end had cut through to the quick! As fast as lash could travel (and that was fast indeed) the other lead ox felt like smart and humiliation. With frenzied, panting snort and groan the yoke quivered and strained, setting shoulders forward and fairly jerking the swing yokes after them. It was an unnecessary strain and Davy knew it. “Whoa-oa-oa, boys!” soothed Joel. “Easy now!” And turning like a tiger on Yank, who again was swinging the whip, he knocked him flat on his back. The team went toiling on but Joel stood, panting, over Yank, and watched him scramble up. Yank’s hand flew to his revolver butt――and there it stopped; for when he got that far he was looking into the big muzzle of Joel’s own Colt’s navy. “None o’ that either!” growled Joel, boiling mad. “Gimme that whip,” and he snatched it back again. “I’ve a notion to lay it on _your_ back. You call yourself a man and abuse dumb beasts that are doing the best they can and doing it well?” He shook his big fist in Yank’s evil face, which was turning from the red of anger to the white of fierce hate. “You touch my team again and I’ll _kill_ you!” roared Joel. “I told you they were to be let alone and I mean it. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it.”