“Well, now, I never want to make bother for a good cowman,” Jameson answered. “It’s true you’re off your course, but maybe that’s natural. I’ll just take your own count and let you go. You can pay me the fee and I’ll not bother you any more at all.” “Won’t even ride in amongst the herd to look at the brands, nor nothing?” “Why, no! What’s the use? I can trust men like you. Just pay me the fee and let her rip.” “And how much is the fee, Mister Inspector?” “Nothing at all, you might say—two bits a head. Taking your own count—let’s see; call it thirty-six hundred head for easy figuring. Divide her by four. Nine’s a nine and naught’s a naught—she comes to nine hundred dollars. Ought to be a cold thousand; but as I said, that’s nothing amongst men like us. Give me that and I’ll let you go and never take another look. I’ll trust a man like you.” Jim Nabours had played in many a game where one does not display his emotions. He set his face now, almost suppressing the dull red that took over the gray glint of his eye. The sum of nine hundred dollars was the same as nine million to him. There was not a hundred dollars, even of Mexican make, in all the convoy, and he knew that. “Like you say, that’s little enough,” said he. “Two bits a throw ain’t worth talking over, not amongst men like us. But just for sake of friendship, let’s ride on over to our wagon and have a cup of coffee—you orto see how pore it is.” He spoke with a finality hard to evade. The other rode alongside. A quarter of a mile, and Nabours threw up his hand. Del Williams swung away from his stand and came up at a gallop. Nabours had loosed his rope. “Del,” said he, “this is Mr.—I dunno.” “Jameson; Henry D. Jameson, of Austin, gentlemen.” “And he says he’s the cattle inspector on the Red. It costs us two bits a head to cross the river, Del. It ain’t much, only nine hunderd dollars. And so——” “Nine hun——” But Del Williams did not finish. The rope which Jim Nabours idly had uncoiled suddenly shot out behind him with a quick side flirt. It settled fair around the neck of Henry D. Jameson, the first cattle inspector Texas ever knew. The next instant the aforesaid Henry D. Jameson was out of his saddle, his hands clawing grass as he slid along the ground, choking very rapidly. Del Williams on chance laid his own rope on the neck of the Jameson horse, which seemed a good one. “You damn thief! You low-down, lying son of a ’niquity, you!” The wrath of Jim Nabours, smoldering a half hour, now flamed. His tongue waxed unprintable while in two composite languages of the Southwest he cursed Henry D. Jameson till his own face was as red as that of his victim was empurpled. Del Williams, gun in hand, followed close, his cue obvious.