Cig sneered contempt. “Ain’t you got any brains under that big lid you wear? I brought her because she’s Clint Reed’s kid, an’ I ain’t squared my account with him. See?” Any one watching closely would have seen a change in Black’s eyes. Something hard and steely passed into them. “What you aimin’ to do with her?” he asked quietly. “Ain’t made up my mind. Mebbe I never will give her back. Mebbe I’ll stick that bird Reed for a ransom. No can tell.” “So?” Black swung from the saddle and lounged forward in the bandy-legged, high-heeled fashion of the range rider. “I’ll do a li’l guessin’ my own self. Mebbe I’ll take her right back to Clint p.d.q.” The eyes of the crook narrowed. “Say, where d’youse get that stuff, fellow? When was youse elected king o’ Prooshia?” “What kind of an outfit do you figure this is?” the range rider asked. “Think we’re makin’ war on kids, do you? Well, we’re not.” “Who asked youse to butt in on my business?” Cig crouched, snarling, a menace and a threat. “That ain’t supposed to be safe for black-headed guys, I’ll tell the world.” “Not yore business any more’n mine. We’re in this together. I’ll tell you right now you can’t pull a play like that an’ get away with it.” “Can’t I?” The New Yorker’s lip curled in a sneer. “Says _you_.” “Says _I_.” Black’s steady gaze did not waver a thousandth part of an inch. Cig spoke to Prowers, jerking the thumb of his left hand toward the cowpuncher. “What’s eatin’ this black bird? He claims to be sore at this Reed guy, same as we are. He ain’t above stampedin’ cattle onto sleepin’ men and croakin’ ’em. Mebbe he’s yellow an’ gettin’ ready to rap to the bulls. Mebbe--” The quid of tobacco stood out in Black’s cheek like a marble. His jaws had stopped moving. He, too, addressed the old cattleman. “Call off this wolf of yore’s, Jake, onless you want him sent to Kingdom Come. Nobody can tell me I’m yellow without a come-back,” he said in a low, even voice. Prowers had been watching them both, curious, vigilant, small intent eyes sweeping from one to the other as the quarrel progressed. Now he spoke, curtly, first to the homesteader, then to the crook. “Don’t pull yore picket pin, Don. That’ll be enough, Cig. I don’t need any demonstration.” Black did not for an instant relax his rigid wariness. “Tha’s what I’m waitin’ to find out, Jake. He said I was yellow an’ gettin’ ready to squeal.” “Back water, you,” the ranchman ordered Cig. Cig hesitated, still defiant. “I ain’t lookin’ for no trouble--” “So, of course, you’ll tell Don there’s nothin’ to what you said, that you was a li’l’ het up under the collar.” “--but I ain’t duckin’ it either. I’m willing to eat what I said, but he can’t dictate about the kid. See?” The cattleman’s light eyes stabbed bleakly at the man. “You ain’t playin’ a lone hand, Cig. Don’s right about it. We’re all in this. An’ another thing. Don’t you forget for a minute that you’ll do as I say, you an’ Don both.”